#(( religious imagery still makes him uncomfortable though

[helllords]

(( Leviathan's relationship with religion is something I'd love to explore further and one day write a proper headcanon for, but for now know that after everything he went through ( being manipulated by Lucifer to get Adam and Eve to eat the apple; being cast out of the Garden of Eden; succumbing to his despair in his ocean-like purgatory and then being 'saved' by Lucifer again ), he still cannot bring himself to hate God and heaven. In the end, he thinks he himself is the one to blame for giving into that temptation. ))

[aureatchi]

⋆ ☽˚｡ 𓂃 ࣪˖ AND THAT DAY THAT WE’LL WATCH THE DEATH OF THE SUN . . . ft. FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

⟢ PRÉCIS. restless at an hour far too late to be awake, you take a quest to the personal library lit only by warm-toned ambient lamps and candles. however, you are greeted by one who chastises you to rest, and despite his pretty face you remain stubborn. in turn, he takes up a mission on his own; one that he alone will always win: to coax you to sleep.

◞ OR fyodor knows time is limited. if only you realized this was his labyrintian way of saying au revoir for now.

ᡴꪫ a/n. it’s always his lap. been thinking about this scenario for awhile + re-inspired by the friends who played with my hair this week hehe. it makes me feel so sleepy. started to cope with ch113. :’) i hope this is decent ᡣ𐭩

ᡴꪫ info. fem!reader. fluff; sweetly suggestive in one part…and then hit with a train of angst; i warned u. soft fyodor. comfort/hurt ↻. religious imagery. it’s u trying to get him to sleep too. both poetic and shakespeare ramblings. bsd manga chapter 113 + s5 finale spoilers. russian may be incorrect. ﾉ wc. 3.1k+

“Is there anything you find more powerful than manipulation?” 

Seated on the armchair across from yours, the ravenette took a sip of tea from his mug before setting it down. A bantering parley had taken place in between you two, filled with giggles and smiles, but in a moment without thought, you had brought up a more serious topic. 

“Actually, yes,” he responded. 

“A woman’s intuition.” You didn’t miss how his gaze slightly lowered. “The woman’s gut feeling is superior. If a man were to try manipulating her, she would know. No matter how naïve she was, the body would give her a single signal that could unravel his entire disposition at the fingertips.” 

You discreetly smiled, looking down at the mug. You knew Fyodor was referring to his experience with you. At one point in time, he tried to finesse you in schemes of calamity. But in response, you ruined him—he would dare not admit out loud that you had forcefully taken whatever mess his heart was and sewed it back together with the strings of your own soul. You did so without ever realizing either. After so many years on this earth, even he did not know how to mend himself. 

Now, he could only look at you as being the single thing that didn’t go wrong in the wasteland of the world. The ravenette almost considered you not of the world—you were as divine as the angels, after all. Perhaps it was his excuse to add along another duty the Father had commissioned to him—Fyodor would assure your safety and happiness through the rest of time—even once he got his hands on that book. 

Because if not plans that surged through his mind, it was his most cherished memories of you. 

…

Even though the room wasn’t too hot and the bed wasn’t uncomfortable, you could not go to sleep. You had tried counting sheep in your head for hours, but you still ended up awake well past midnight and had enough sheep for dozens of herds. 

You turned over in annoyance before you finally sat up. You didn’t understand why you felt such unease—maybe you drank your coffee too late in the day. A bad decision at that. 

You tapped the other side of the bed for a final check. Empty. Fyodor was still up. You would visit him in the office later, but for now, you’d give him the privilege of being unbothered. You decided on another place to visit—somewhere that would calm you down so perhaps you could finally catch slumber. 

The personal library. 

It was the coziest place, especially during the late hours of the evening, where the lights were warm and dim, not too hard on the eyes. Where the shelves were packed with literature and knowledge permeated the room with its philosophy. Fyodor annotated everything—so most books were scribbled in almost illegible cursive Russian. You always told yourself if you didn’t start to learn his lingo, you would be locked away from the library’s secrets forever. 

You tiptoed down the hallway until you reached the door at the end. You were thinking of picking up one of William Shakespeare’s tragedies and reading until either you fell asleep or the sun rose. You prayed it wasn’t the latter—though restless, you were exhausted too. And you didn’t want to suffer the consequences the next day. 

However, you were surprised to see the door already narrowly open. The lights were on and the candles were lit, too—was Fyodor not in his office? He seldom worked anywhere else and would always go to you as soon as he finished. 

You peeked through the slight crack in the door. He was indeed there—your lover’s back turned towards you, capturing all his charming enigma. How the man carried himself with the poise and elegance of a white dove, despite starting wars among nations. His mouth spoke of divinity while he ravaged the harmony of life with his hands. It was fitting; Fyodor was a juxtaposition in himself—you knew this, and so did he. 

“You can come in.” A second of pure silence passed before you opened the door to step inside. Not even a single noise was made, and yet, he recognized your presence. 

Almost shyly, you shuffled towards him. You did not plan for Fyodor to catch you—you were still in between deciding whether going inside was worth his lecture. 

Because although the handsome workaholic stayed up until absurd hours of the night, he did not want you following his ways. 

You circled the lounging area until you were in front of him, who closed the journal he was writing in. 

“Lyubov, why are you still awake?” he asked. 

Usually, you only stayed up out of anticipation in waiting for his return—whether from a mission or just to the bed. You were so stubborn that Fyodor would actually halt his work for a few days after being gone for awhile to sleep with you so that he was sure you were resting properly.

It was different this time. He had been home for the whole month, and despite being in his office for the majority of this week, you didn’t have any problem with going to bed without him until now. 

You shrugged with a quiet, “I’m not sure.” You eyed the unfamiliar journal. “Are you still working?” 

“Sort of,” Fyodor replied. “Would you like some chamomile tea? That will help.” 

You shook your head. “What do you mean ‘sort of?’ Last time I checked, you were either working or not.” 

“It’s not any more important than addressing the current problem at hand,” he calmly dejected the topic, leaving you confused. 

“What’s the current problem?” 

“You’re awake. You shouldn’t be at this hour.” 

“Well, now that I’ve found you here, I don’t think I can return to bed unless you come with me.” You dramatically yawned before stepping closer to him.

“Let’s go sleep, Fedya.” You tried dragging him up by the arm, but he stayed sat on the armchair, much to your disdain. 

“I cannot, I’m not done yet,” Fyodor replied. As you froze, he took your hand in his and brought you to his lap. 

“However, you must sleep.” He let you shift so that you were comfortable. “You came here to read?” 

“Yeah,” you replied as he handed you a book. What a mind reader Fyodor was—you were presented with The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. It would be the perfect reread. 

“Why this play?” you tested. 

“The pile of books you never put back on the shelves over there shows you’ve been reading a lot of tragedies lately,” he nodded towards the stack of books you read this week. “I thought you’d probably be in the mood for one by none other than the master of catastrophe.

“Plus, it’s fitting for you, too,” he added, voice a bit lower as he fidgeted with the hem of your shirt. “You’re so dramatic.” 

“Hey!” You pouted, moving away from him, pretending you were insulted. Though you knew too that further proved his point. 

“Maybe we should act it out,” you joked as you scanned through the pages to find a poem you were familiar with. “Act two, scene two.” 

“Hamlet’s letter to Ophelia,” Fyodor recalled. 

“Doubt thou the stars are fire;

“doubt that the sun doth move; 

“doubt truth to be a liar; 

“but never doubt I love.” 

“Dlya neye, v iskrennosti,” you squinted, reading the little note by the quote you did not understand. The Russian laughed at your terrible pronunciation. 

“Some scholars say that Hamlet used his words toward Ophelia as a manipulation tactic,” he stated. “He had a larger strategy at hand, and he rarely mentioned her unless she was on stage, with the exception of her death. If he harbored such a profound love for her, would Shakespeare not make it more direct? What do you think?” 

You contemplated for a few seconds, eyes drifting amongst the shelves of books as you felt your lover behind you gently run his fingers through your hair. 

“I think Shakespeare didn’t give us clarity for a reason. I’d like to believe Hamlet did love Ophelia. The story does not revolve around romance, after all—it revolves around revenge. A man with ambitious plans would not have love at the forefront of his head. Or, he wouldn’t speak aloud about it, at the least. Perhaps he was more reserved about that aspect of his life, too—he could’ve been shy to speak about it in front of all aristocracy—like you, for example.”

You giggled with a shrug, expressing your last phrase as lighthearted, but you still earned a slight frown from him. It was amusing that the nationwide terrorist was timid in everything concerning his love life. 

“Obviously, it could be taken as manipulation, too,” you continued. ���But again, it’s not stated upfront for a reason. Shakespeare mirrors the complexities of a person in real life. You never quite know the truth of other people, no matter how much you think you know them.” 

Fyodor nodded, satisfied with your interpretation. “I wholly agree. It is why Shakespeare is enticing to many—he creates characters that simulate life’s universal themes and relatable human emotions when reacting to those situations. I only disagree with one point you made.” 

“Which one? You being shy?” you asked. He shook his head with a smile. 

“Perhaps I will reward you with that knowledge if you sleep.” He chuckled when you groaned in disappointment. 

“How about you just do your work while I read? Then, when you finish, we can leave together.” 

“If it were that easy. You’re a distraction, milaya.” 

You rolled your eyes. “No, I promise! I originally came here to read anyway—I won’t distract you this time.” You moved to one side of Fyodor’s lap so he would have space to do what he wanted. 

He did not answer you, instead making a quiet “tsk” when his fingers caught on a tangle in your hair. Fyodor worked to gently separate the knot. The terrorist was a perfectionist, but the mindset further stemmed past reaching twisted goals to create a world without flaws. Three spoons of jam in his tea, faint scratches on a deck of cards, and ensuring he had the satisfaction of reaching the ends of your hair with his fingertips were a few details he keenly paid mind to. 

You took his silence as a comply, and started to play out the tragedy of the Danish prince in your head while your lover brushed through your locks. Eventually, he picked his journal back up and continued to write information you paid no mind to.

…

You did not know how much time passed before you felt your eyes grow heavy. The faint ticks of the clock on the wall combined with the warm candlelight’s glow drew you to slumber. You closed Hamlet and shifted positions until you ended up straddling Fyodor. You buried your face in the crook of his neck until you could see nothing but dark. 

“Sonnyy?” 

He started stroking his fingers through your hair again, relaxing you even more. 

“Lublu tebya, kak angel boga, kak roso lyubit solovey. S toboy vremya ostanavlivaetsya, yi ya zhivu lish mgnoveniam ryadom s toboy.” 

However, the sounds of seconds passing by and intimate lighting adorning the room could not compare to the persuasion of your lover’s voice in his mother tongue. Foreign words spilled from his lips as rich as velvet, as soothing as a lullaby. If his voice, in general could put you in a trance, here he harbored the garden serpent’s master of temptation itself. Even if you did not understand him. Worst of all, he knew this. You had fallen into his trap long ago.

“Ya boudou skucha—what are you doing?” 

You were drowsily planting kisses on his neck. You stopped once the room became silent and looked up, catching his half-lidded amethyst gaze. The conjurer’s expression was for once softened—or perhaps it had been the entire time you were with him. It was a gift only you were blessed with. 

You smiled, a tad smugness in your look, before sitting up and giving him a shy peck on his lips. 

For a few seconds, you were both frosted in that moment of time—his hands wrapped around your waist, massaging circles onto your skin under your shirt as you straddled his own, your eyes fixated on his almost surprised, slightly flustered violet stare. The candles illuminated the room in such a way that made you think it was really only you two who existed in the world—your two souls someplace faraway where nothing else mattered but the sounds of your heartbeats and what you would do next after his mouth slightly parted. You were the most beautiful thing Fyodor had laid eyes on, throughout eras of people. 

You kissed him for the first time that night, and the ravenette kissed you back. It escalated to become sloppy—you were both too exhausted to care whether your lips were on his or if they instead trailed down to trace his jawline as sharp as those of the greek gods. Or when you were back on your lover’s neck—however, this time almost sucking, mesmerized by how easily you could bruise him. You did not need to wear lipstick to create deep red marks on Fyodor’s pale skin. 

“I told you that you’d end up being a distraction.” 

You shivered at cold fingertips dancing across your lower abdomen, though they were still quite far from anywhere you wished. You winced when Fyodor bounced you up in order to fix your position, but it offered a different effect. 

“Careful,” he warned. “That spot is visible to others.” 

Being the leader of the Rats in the House of the Dead and member of organization Decay of Angels placed the Russian at a high status in the underground world. He always restricted the places you could leave visible traces of affection on him whenever he had a new operation in front of him—Fyodor was one to uphold modesty. 

You sighed softly before disconnecting your mouth from his neck, only to unbutton the top half of his shirt. 

Like his hands, the demon’s heart was cold. He bore at least some sense of insensitivity to death—he had to; granting silence was part of his duty. However, something about you ignited a fire in him out of nothing, out of no help amidst ice—you were not given a flame nor torch to aid you.

If he was the one to destroy the world to pay the price of ridding sin, you were the one who rebuilt creation from the ground and up. You were unfazed by the city ruins; you were unfazed by Fyodor Dostoevsky, the man most feared in the world. A duality: to them, his hands soaked in crimson blood, but to you, they clasped around yours in adoration.

And since he’d met you, his heart was filled with the foreign warmth of love. Accompanied were trust, vulnerability, and your sweet, honey-like kisses that you littered all over his broad shoulders and chest, because he deserved love everywhere. 

He whispered against your ear, promising he would indulge you more another day, when you weren’t so sleepy. When both he and the moon had a little more time in the sky, was what he didn’t say. At the same time, he took a free hand to slowly guide your eyes to close, hovering barely above your eyelashes. 

You complied, with no more complaints, as he kissed you on the forehead. 

…

As Fyodor carried you down the hallway to the bedroom bridal-style about half an hour later, you dozed into dazy consciousness once again. 

“You have…another mission, hm?” you whispered, recalling the preceding hints he had given you. 

“Yes,” he quietly replied, walking into the dark bedroom. He tucked you under the covers before getting in right beside you. 

“Truly, why were you in the library?” you asked, getting out your final curiosity before you fell back to dream. 

“I did have a ‘sort-of’ job,” Fyodor replied. “Taking care of you. I was aware you’d show up.”  

“Please stay safe, Fedya.”

…

You knew something was off with the thunderstorm that came several weeks later. A vampire apocalypse—however fictitious that sounded—was happening back in Japan, but Fyodor kept you overseas at where you two stayed before departing. 

You didn’t ever touch his plans, but your mind finally processed how every event leading up until now seemed so wrong. The month-long stay—Fyodor had never done that before. The week you decided to read tragedies—you felt one even worse than those acted out in the theatre was coming. That night you stayed up—your gut was already screaming that he was about to depart again. 

And how this time would be different than before. Your intuition had warned you, yet you still fell asleep and let him leave. You stood before the journal the conjurer made sure caught your eye that night. With shaky hands and heavy rain beating down on the windows, you flipped through the pages. Confusion and tears formed in your eyes at the vague implication of what was written. 

Do not worry yourself with the death of all things that are seen and unseen by you. It is not an end, but the start of all things that are left to do. 

Rodnaya, you asked what I did not agree with concerning your thoughts about Hamlet loving Ophelia. Have you ever considered a man having both love and ideals at the forefront of his mind? Isn’t love a dream itself? 

…

Fyodor swore this when he judged how all could go wrong in the next step of his plan. Prior to meeting you, the calculating, confident smirk he always had on his face was authentic, and he simply assumed he would never fall to a mistake. 

But now the plans were adjusted to work around you; the schemes all ended to benefit you, too. If he misjudged something, not only would it fail the perfect world God deemed it to be, but it would also affect you through and through. 

Perhaps that was why he only almost saw you as an angel no matter how much you resembled one—no, you were far more glorious than one. You were human—so human that instead of looking down at him from above, you came down onto tainted soil and blessed him with a piece of heaven. Real empathy that now made him think of you as he sat with a rod pierced through his torso in the escape helicopter, doomed to death. 

You truly did ruin him. 

…

“Is there anything you find more powerful than manipulation?” 

And Sigma wondered how such a man so immoral and cruel actually loved someone else. As he searched through the demon's memories, he realized he must go much further back in time to find any helpful information for the brunette ability-nullifier who assigned him. 

Because if it was not anything relating to his plans that showed up through his search, it was every memory of you.

translations: (please pardon me if they’re bad, :’) correct me if you are fluent and would like to!)

dlya neye, v iskrennost : for her, in sincerity

sonnyy : sleepy

lublu tebya, kak angel boga, kak roso lyubit solovey. : i love you like an angel loves God, like a nightingale loves a dew.

s toboy vremya ostanavlivaetsya, yi ya zhivu lish mgnoveniam ryadom s toboy. : with you, time stops, and i live only for moments next to you.

ya boudou skucha[t po tebe] : i will miss you.

i heard if you rb, fyodor will come back to life. :’) reblogs are cherished; they are what support me the most. <3

someone should’ve warned me about hozier. only started listening to him last month and i…can’t stop.

© 2024 AUREATCHI. no reposts or translations. do not steal. support banner + gradient line by benkeibear. animated line by benkeibear. manga header mine.

[sweetercalypso]

Pearl Rosary || Din Djarin

Word count: 1.7k

Summary: Priest of Mandalore!Din Djarin listens to your sins during confession

Notes: part three in my week of horror series! minors dni; public(ish) sex, finger sucking, deepthroating, cock worship, facial, reader is a Mandalorian who takes her helmet off, so much religious imagery

In the Cathedral of Mandalore, there’s only just enough light to make out the back of the wooden pew in front of you. The doors and windows are adorned with an ornate red glass that wash the chapel in a somber crimson gloom, a reminder that only those dedicated to their creedal faith are permitted inside.

The nave is silent beyond the occasional clink of beskar and the solemn bells ringing overhead in hourly intervals. You’d counted three resounding chimes, then four, then five, as the day stretches on outside the walls of the chapel.

In your tightly coiled spiral of pensive rumination, time seems to stand still.

Your eyes snap up as another Mandalorian passes by your aisle in their departure from the confessional. The small curtained booth at the front of the church has a strangely foreboding presence, and you’d been working up the courage to step inside all day.

The front doors close, and you’re left with your guilt once again.

If you admit to the thoughts weighing on your conscience, maybe you’ll have the chance to repent. Or, if the pit of dread in your stomach is any prediction, you’ll be cast out for your inclination towards a life of sin.

Before you can work up the nerve to decide whether to gamble your fate, the head of the church, Din Djarin, steps out of the other side of the confessional, rolling his shoulders to relieve the stiff ache of being confined in his narrow compartment.

His armor has grown dull with age and wear, buffed with a flat luster that speaks of its obstinate strength.

Others have said that his appearance makes him seem ordinary, but you’ve always thought that his mannerisms were what set him apart. His imposing stance, his commanding way of speaking, the way his head tilts when he’s deep in thought – he’s beautiful if you know where to look.

When he turns in your direction, your breath catches in your throat.

“You’ve been here for quite a while.” His voice has an unexpected warmth that licks up your spine. “Are you here to speak with me?”

Your eyes flicker warily to the confession booth. “I’m not sure.”

He seems to pause for a moment before making his mind up to join you, floorboards groaning under his heavy boots as he draws near. You shift uncomfortably on the hard bench, squirming under the spotlight of his attention. He stops at the end of your row and rests a hand behind you on the back of the pew.

“We can speak out here if you’d prefer.”

You’re surprised that he’d recognized the source of your unease, though you’re not sure if he realizes why the embrace of the confessional is so distinctly unnerving.

The people of Mandalore are not known for their empathy, especially not those held in high regard by the church. Din Djarin is a fiercely orthodox man, and you doubt he understands the position you’re in.

“I’ve seen you during services,” he comments. “Always so attentive.”

Heat rises to your cheeks at the thought of being recognized in the mass of devoted warriors that frequent his sermons. Is your shame so pronounced that you stand out in a crowd? “I didn’t know you paid attention to the assembly.”

He hums in response. “I care deeply for everyone in my congregation, especially those who are in danger of losing their faith. Tell me, what’s been troubling you?”

You hesitate before answering, skirting around the truth as much as you can, as much as he’ll let you.

“I’ve had… impure thoughts, father.”

“Oh?” His voice is rich with interest. “Indulge me, cyar'ika. What tempts you?”

His smooth, full baritone makes it impossible to deny his entreaty, like he’s wrenching your secrets from the far reaches of your mind.

“I’ve thought about… taking my helmet off in the witness of non-believers. I’ve thought about what you look like underneath your armor.” You pause for breath. “I’ve thought about your image at improper times.”

His chest falls with a heady sigh, though the sound is lost beyond the rasp of his modulator. “I see. And how do you think you should pay for your transgressions?”

The presence of other Mandalorians can be heard from outside the chapel – an admonition of what you have to lose if you are turned away. The air in the room shifts. Your hands flex at your sides.

“I’ll do anything.” You push forward onto the edge of your seat, ardently pleading for your chance at repentance. “Tell me how to make things right.”

He shifts in place, mulling over his options for what feels like an eternity. You swallow the urge to scream as silence rings in your ears.

Finally, he speaks.

“Maybe you’re too curious,” he decides. “Too concerned with things you cannot have.”

Your fingers dig into your palms, awaiting the final blow of his judgement.

“I think you need to experience firsthand the gravity of your desire.”

He leans down like he’s sharing something that no one else can hear, a sentiment too clandestine to be born in a house of worship.

“This is a sacred place,” he explains. “If you’re going to commit an act of sin, let it be here.”

You’re taken aback by the implication of his words. You’d been expecting a show of indignation, maybe even outrage for your betrayal of the Way, but it seems like he’s encouraging your lapse in faith. Surely, you’ve misunderstood.

The hand caressing your shoulder tells you that you haven’t.

“Revealing yourself to anyone a sin, and the public would have you exiled for removing your helmet. But here, in the presence of a higher being, I will make an exception.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before his hands are on the underside of your helmet, tipping your head back with the force of his grip. The fabric of his gloves glides against your jaw as he lifts your beskar veil and exposes you under the chapel’s dim, ruddy glow.

You squint at the sudden shift in the light, surprised to discover what your dark-tinted visor had been hiding from you. The red halo cast around him is much more intense without the obstruction of your helmet. His outlined form burns with a fiery sanctitude that makes you shudder.

Your attention is drawn to his hands ghosting over your face, cradling your cheeks with a curious touch. The pad of his thumb presses against your mouth, tugging at the plush of your bottom lip. “Is this what you wanted?”

You swallow thickly and chance a look up at him, finding your face in the reflection of his visage. Your lips part in fascination at the sight of your own eyes staring back at you.

“That’s it, open up for me.”

His thumb presses further into your mouth and hooks behind your teeth. The taste of the holy chrism melts across your senses, balsam and olive oil and something you can’t name. When your tongue swipes out to meet his digit, he hums low in his chest and pulls his other hand back to curl around his belt.

“Does this make you feel good? Corrupting a man of faith?”

You whimper around his thumb, eyes blown wide with lust. The metal buckle at his waist glints in the low light, seemingly pleading for your touch. You don’t know how far he’ll take this lesson, but you’re hoping it ends in a mutual exchange of sin.

As if persuaded by your thoughts alone, he works open his belt and the fastenings of his pants, revealing a patch of tawny skin that contrasts the muted tones of his beskar.

“You need more than this, though. Don’t you?”

With a low hiss, he pulls his hardening cock from its confines, and your mouth waters at the sight. He’s eager, alive, twitching in his tight grip. The tip of his cock weeps as he bucks into his hand.

The heat simmering in your belly has grown into a blazing flame. When he swaps his thumb for the head of his cock, your thighs clench with the urgent need to consume him in every way.

His warm, salty taste is so human, so unlike the righteous figure he’s made out to be. You can almost picture what the rest of him looks like by the glimpse of what he’s offered you.

Your lips wrap coyly around his length, an earnest appeal for his approval.

The tint of his visor hides his eyes, but you gaze up at him anyway in hopes that he meets you halfway, that he commits the image of your debauched affair to memory.

“C’mon, this is your chance to atone.”

You trace the vein on the underside of his cock, tongue laving over him in search of a reaction, in search of redemption through your greedy act of worship. His hips stutter in response and the head of his cock twitches against the roof of your mouth.

He mumbles something akin to prayer and focuses his efforts, sliding further into your mouth until your nose presses against his pelvis and his cock settles in the back of your throat. You gag at the foreign pressure and try to pull away, but he settles a hand on the nape of your neck to hold you in place.

“That’s it, take it all.”

His thrusts are slow, lazy, careful not to overwhelm you. When he moves, it’s a gentle drag over your tongue, not the heedless intrusion you’d expected from him. He bucks his hips like he wants to know you’re enjoying it too.

“Fuck,” he grunts, chin dropped to his chest. “Your filthy mouth was made for this.”

You wish you could see him without the beskar disguising his reaction. The heave of his chest, the flex of his hands, the jump of his cock when you tongue the right spot – his body is so expressive, you have no doubt that his face would be too.

A few more juts of his hips and he’s pulling out of your mouth and forming a fist around his length, flushed skin glistening with your spit.

He chokes out a broken noise and angles his hips towards you, painting the evidence of your transgressions over your cheeks and your lips.

You touch your fingers to your face when he pulls away, eyeing his handiwork with a sound of approval. This part of yourself, it’s his now. Desecrated for the use of someone more sacred than yourself.

The corners of your mouth stretch into a grin. This is exactly the forgiveness you were looking for.

[yeyinde]

ode to a conversation stuck in your throat

Captain John Price x Reader

》 WORD COUNT: 12,7k

》 WARNINGS: 18+ | MATURE: allusions to smut but nothing graphic/explicit

》 TAGS: Gender-Neutral Reader. Angst. Mutual Pining. Idiots in Love (but in Romania). Fluff. Love and Romance described as death and decay and broken religious imagery. Y'know. The usual Yey tags.

》 NOTES: I recently got into Augury (just a fancy word for bird watching, innit??) so this feels more whimsical and nonsensical than usual. Good luck with this one, lads.

It's like clockwork. 

A text comes—some variation of are you awake, or are you home? in that strange Price-esque way he manages, even through the stark face of a message (biting derision, Gaz calls it, adds: man can't pretend to be a little less angry even over text)—and then a phone call. 

Always after midnight. 

Devil's hour. 

When your phone rings at half past three in the morning, hearing Price's gruff perfunctory greeting of "alrigh'?" bleeding through the phone, and right into your ear doesn't surprise you anymore. 

(Not much does, really.)

These phone calls are a strange, almost paradoxical thing that both happens often enough not to be considered rare, and yet: it still seems outlandish enough each time it happens for you to ever really let yourself expect it. Odd. Price doesn't strike you as the type of man to need to rely on his friends—the seldom few he does have, you often joke (always a shade too close to the truth like most jokes are; the one that makes him dip his head in a nod of quiet acquiesce, and make you wonder if you went too far)—but he's never given you a reason for them. 

Never answered why. 

They just—

Happened. 

(Over and over and over again—)

The brief conversation in the oddest hour of the morning started a new tradition. A routine. Expecting a phone call from Price at least once a week was now so commonplace, you almost felt empty when days had passed, and your phone never rang. 

He can't sleep. Neither can you. 

And so, he calls you. 

It's not always about a mission. Most of the conversations that take place are about absolutely nothing. Everything, sometimes, when you pry apart the bones locked around your chest, and bare your insides to the warm cellphone clutched in your hand. To the voice on the other line. 

A man you know—have known since you first stepped into his training ring, and into the orbit of Captain John Price—and barely understand at all. 

You know everything about him—his name, his title, where he grew up, went to school, his favourite food, his least favourite drink, what he does after a mission; his greatest fear, his biggest worry, the insecurity that gnarls in his chest, and the weight of the world that sometimes feels like it might splinter his bones, grinding them into gun cotton—and nothing at all.

The reason why he called you all those months ago, invited you on a mission you had no real part to play in, and why he still does is a mystery. 

(Loneliness, maybe. 

Insomnia, you find, is more bearable when it's shared between two.)

But that was before. 

The last phone call you got from Price had been nearly three months ago after you touched down in Heathrow following a botched mission in Tenerife. 

You heard the murmurs about Shepherd, about Zyani that trickled through the mess hall (when there was no battle to be fought, they gossiped), and so his radio silence makes sense considering he was halfway across the globe for the bulk of it. 

In the midst of it, though, you would find yourself staring blankly at your phone, screen black and void of any calls, and wonder if it had anything to do with your offer. With his swift rejection. 

When it rings after an aching expanse of time, you can't place the gnarled tension in your chest. The uncomfortable feeling that blooms in your heart at the sight of his name flashing in neon blue. 

Price seems almost surprised to hear your voice on the other line instead of the monotonous droll of your voicemail. 

"Up for a trip?" He asked when you cleared the sleep from your throat, and rubbed blearily at your eyes. "Jus' me and you."

It feels like nothing at all had changed since he last called you with an offer to accompany him to Tenerife. 

"Just like old times," you murmur, a touch distant. Hedging. 

"Right," he says, words glueing to his throat. You hear the click when he clears it, and pretend you're only pulling the phone away from your ear to check the time. 

Half past three. Of course. Of course. 

"Got a proposition for you." 

Typical Price: he gets right to the point. 

There is no staying up talking about everything, nothing, and all the in between until well past five in the morning when your alarm sounds for your run. Or his for a shower before heading into headquarters at Hereford to reach a new class of hopefuls when he isn't saving the world with his infamous team. 

The very same one he refuses to let you be a part of.

(Better on your own, he says.

You think you'd be better with him—

His team. Team. Not—)

The blooming heat under your cheeks is never acknowledged in the sanctity of your lonesome bedroom with his rough voice pitched low enough to squeeze through the little holes of your speaker. Tucked away to pine while still somehow making a fool of yourself. 

You're only half listening when he murmurs about his proposition. 

It's a simple mission, he tells you. The usual grab and go. 

Usual, because only in this work could kidnapping bad people in foreign countries be considered normal. Routine. 

(Legal, kind of.)

"It's in Romania," he murmurs, and the tinny sound of his voice through the old dial phone of the inn he's staying at between missions makes him sound lighter than he usually does. Airy. "I know you liked visiting the last time—"

It drags a snort from you. "Yeah, on holiday. Something about this whole ordeal tells me I won't be enjoying mici in Târgovişte much." 

"Well. Consider this a pre-paid holiday. I'll do all the work, you just 'ave to sit there, and—"

"Look pretty?"

"—listen."

You hum. "I think I'm much better at looking pretty than I am at listening, John."

"Yeah," it's dry, derisive. "Don't I know it."

Silence lapses between you—intentional, of course. He's letting you think it over. Weigh the pros and cons of a free trip to Romania. With four hands and two heads you could clear it up before the allotted time frame, giving you those extra, precious few days to linger in the country. 

Tying up loose ends is what will end up on the official report. Discouraging witnesses from coming forward with stacks of Euros stuffed deep in their pockets. 

Making sure no stone has been left unturned—the Americans, in particular, like that one. They never ask questions when you wax about patriotism, and ensure there's no chance of calamity. They like their ends tied, and their witnesses happy. 

It's all a cash business. More than enough money wired to an infant account under an preconstructed name. Passwords and identification handed to you in a sealed envelope. It's unlikely that anyone would ever track said witnesses down to discover the person given hush money was actually a nightclub in Mamaia or a fancy pub in Cluj. 

Illegal, of course. Should you ever get caught, you'd be reprimanded. Punished. Made an example of. 

(But who doesn't skim a bit from the top? Especially when the pile is given to you by the military.)

"Fine," you huff, and aim for some semblance of acquiescence in your tone despite knowing full well that you've yet to turn down these impromptu partnerships with him since they started two years ago. 

Moldova. Egypt. Chad. Canada. The Philippines. Taiwan. Tenerife. Your odd partnership has taken you further across the world than the sedentary office job of pretending to make a difference ever did. 

The place he said you were better suited for. You refuse to wonder what that means. 

"Okay. I'll go. But I'm not doing anything at all except enjoying the Romanian countryside." 

"Wouldn't expect any less from you." 

You want to say, then why bring me at all? Why not take Gaz or Soap or Laswell? Why sideline me so blatantly only to keep asking for my help when it's never really needed? but the words are stuck in your throat. Trapped in their esophageal prison.

Instead, you say: "count me in then, I suppose," and wonder when you became such a coward. 

"Mm. I should let you get some sleep, then."

You make a noncommittal noise in the back of your throat. It's been three months of nothing but unanswered texts that gradually faded into nothing by the third week. An island of uncertainty. Worry. Dread. Fear. Wondering what you did wrong, and coming, quite conclusively (and indignantly) to the conclusion that you didn't. 

Hearing his voice again, tinny and always shades softer than you've ever heard him speak before, unearths the sarcophagus you laid your feelings inside; a sudden and abrupt disinterment of everything you tried hard to ignore. The desecration cracks the tomb wide open. The flood of everything you tried to bury blooms; the foetid sickness of your festering wants taste a little bit like regret, and even more like hope. 

Helpless, your finger gnarl around the blossom of what laid bare, bones and rotted flesh, and the weight of it in your palm feels more comforting than ever before. Made more potent, you think, by the absence of him. 

It's an unignorable truth that you missed him. 

And so, you cling to the offering like it's a sacred trinket. 

"How—," the words are rough, gritty, when they slip through the moulted dirt clogging your throat. Dredged up in the wake of the sudden excavation. You swallow hard when he makes a noise. Force yourself to claw through the humus. "How are you, John?"

You want to add something you know will make him huff, call you cheeky, something a little coquetry in the wake of your exhumation. Such would be your exequy, but the words are buried once more when the dirt shifts as he draws in a deep, staticky breath. 

He's not usually a loquacious man in person, but something seems to crack open, shift, when it's well after midnight. A secret, a new side of him, shared only with you. 

You don't expect him to respond. You hope, but you don't assume. 

When he sucks in a breath, a staticky little noise that reverberates through the receiver, victory snakes across your vertebrae. Unwarranted and unearned, but the stinging reminder of it does little to stop it from nursing on the marrow of hope pullulating inside of you.  

"Been better," he offers, and the muted shift of him relaxing into the starchy pillows cuts through the line. Settling, you think, for the beginning of your routine. "Didn't have much of a chance to call you. How've you been?" 

"Been better," you echo, a wry twist of humour snaking across your lips when he offers a huff in response. "Lots to get caught up on, I suppose."

And you do. 

You talk about nothing. Everything. 

Your darkest secrets were spilled out in those phone calls at Devils Hour—fears, uncertainty, failures. This is no different. He tells you about Shepherd blinding them all with his dedication to the cause. About how he would have let Laswell rot to save his own arse, but knew, of course, that not letting Price and Gaz rescue her would have raised even more alarms. 

They cornered an animal, he spits. One who led them around by the nose for years. 

Bloody American Politicians, he grumbles. 

No better than the bloody English, you snark back. At least they're honest about their motives when it all comes tumbling down around them, and don't hide it under layers of the blooded elite. Of status. 

He mumbles to himself for a moment before begrudgingly conceding your point. 

It buzzes in the static. A lapse in the midst of espionage tainted catch-up that makes your hindbrain tense for what he might say next. 

He shifts, then, offers even softer than the hello he greeted you with: 

"What about you? Get up to any trouble while I was gone?"

He listens to you bisect yourself in a midnight confessional, letting your rotted guts tumble out in deep lags of silence you wish weren't as comfortable as they are.

He talks, too. 

Tells you about woes of nepotism, and the muppets they send him for basic training. The fleet of soldiers he doesn't want to carry on his back, but does anyway. The losses he couldn't prevent. The monsters he made. 

"I wouldn't change anything," he always says, as if you don't know him by now. As if you need reminding of just how tar-coated his heart really is. "I'd do it all over again." 

You say, "I know, John." And when you hear the hitch in his breath, you add: "you wouldn't be you if you did. I trust your judgement—no matter what." 

Explicit trust. He runs from it. 

He makes a noise in the back of his throat. It always sounds a little bit like a mourning toll. 

"I… should let you get some sleep." 

It's something he always says during your late night phone calls. 

Par the routine, the same question claws through the mess of words unsaid in your oesophagus until it reaches the seam between your teeth and lips. 

Why me, Price?

But every tradition has its rules. 

You let him run, and wonder if he feels as cleansed as you do after baring your soul to someone who knows you better than most of your closest relatives, your friends. 

(Or if the silence that lingers when you hang up feels just as oppressive and empty to him as it does to you.)

Wishful yearning. 

Instead, you say: "try to get some sleep, John. I'll talk to you later." 

And then, like the hypocrite you are, you lay awake and wonder why. 

He meets you at Heathrow, and really—

It sometimes surprises you just how intimidating a man like Price is. 

He glowers down at the phone in his too large hand, eyes downcast, and brows pinched by whatever is irritating him now—emojis, you later discover.

(Bloody things make no sense to me, he grumbles, shoulder knocking against yours when you make yourself comfortable on the plane. 

You gently remind him he's barely even forty.) 

Price is an indomitable man. 

Tall. Broad shouldered. The heft of his bicep is actuated when he curls his hand around the strap of his duffle bag, muscles bulging. Flexing. 

It's hard not to stare at him. 

His shoulders roll back when you approach, eyes flickering up from unravelling the nuance of modern text messaging from a man who came out of the womb a fully fleshed adult with a mortgage. 

The corners of his eyes relax from their narrow slits when recognition bleeds into ashlar blue. His mouth parts a little; the flash of nicotine stained teeth. 

The furrow of his brow flexes like it wants to smooth itself out, but something passes across his face—unknowable, brief; the incipient markings of something that makes him look a little more at ease in the bustling confines of Heathrow (hell on earth you have both very quickly, and unanimously, acknowledged)—and it's pulled back together. Irritation, but not at you. Never at you. 

(But if not at you, then who? 

Why, you wonder, does he always look so cross in your presence?)

He clears his throat. The grumble of his voice, full and robust, and so different from the tinniness of a phone, nearly makes you jump when it glides across your ears, abrasive and raw. A rough growl. 

(You wonder sometimes if the brassiness of his timbre is from choking back apoplectic snarls all day.)

"Took you long enough."

You huff. "London is a nightmare at this time of day, John. As if you could've gotten here any faster." 

"You chose to live in it." 

Another sigh falls from the split seam of your lips. "It's not that bad."

"London smells like shite." 

"As if Liverpool smells any better," you volley back, watching the subtle shift in his expression fade from the pinched world wariness almost permanently etched into the lines of his face into something more relaxed. Agreeable. Or rather, as agreeable as Price could be in the middle of Heathrow, and surrounded by people. 

He opens his mouth, then, as if to remind you of the sea-salted scent of Liverpool, briny and bitter. Smog and hardwork. Oil, gun cotton. The city smells like the working class. Blue collar. Hands gnarled from the factories, and stained permanently with grease. 

A distinct thrum of pride, of home, rumbles through him with each new add-on to why Liverpool, in his opinion, is the best choice to call home.

(And London, he always adds, if only for another barb, another insult in your choice, always reeks of selfish ambition. The kind that rots your insides into something askance, and is deprived of decency.)

His biggest gripe with London, however—

"They never fuckin' smile." 

You passively nod in agreement—you mostly get looks of outright suspicion when you smile at passers-by in central London, so: point to Price—and then undercut the small victory he gains with a mocking grin in his direction. 

Price's nostrils flare when he catches the derisive bite of your lips curling over your teeth.

"You think you're smart, mm?" 

"I'd rather hope so, considering."

"Bloody annoyin' is what you are, considerin'—"

His words are swallowed by some boarding announcement ringing shrill overhead. You pull away from him, and the mocking smile fades into some facsimile of genuinity when you watch him shake his head, put-out and already annoyed by whatever thought skimmed through his thoughts. 

London always seems like a sore topic, but you've known him long enough that the edge in his voice is less severe and more mocking. There is a distaste for the city, but the reason has evaded you much like—

Well. Everything else. 

You've thought about asking why nearly hundreds of times in the past, but that line of questioning has always been a terrifying endeavour. There is a locked door: a proverbial floodgate keeping all of the other why's at bay. Opening it now, in the middle of a crowded terminal, feels reckless. Stupid. 

It's nearly four hours from here to Transilvania. 

You think of all the insubstantial reasons he could offer, and find the idea of them all rather bitter. Anguishing. It sends a ripple of hurt through your chest, and the sting alone is enough to seal your lips.

Words stuck, once more, in the back of your throat. 

Price says nothing when you quiet, eyes flickering between the throng of people rushing through the terminal, listless and impassive. 

There is always a degree of separation between you and him whenever you meet in person, as if the personal, raw conversations whispered into the early hours of the morning are just some strange dream. A fugue wanting, unslaked and bothersome, that ripens inside your virgin sulci. A sickness that manifests in the fibrils of your desire, covetous and greedy; gnarled gyri breathes life into the dreams you reach for until the delineation between reality and fantasy wanes, fades to cinders. 

So, you bite your tongue, letting the noxious words pollute, rot, inside their esophageal prison, and pretend the claw marks on the walls aren't from your own bloody hands. 

You follow his lead, and he's always seemed so content not to speak of the vulnerability you whisper into his ear. The fear he rasps about at quarter to four. 

Gone, then. It doesn't exist when you can see the lapis of his eyes listing toward you periodically, expression oscillating between a rendition of something that feels a little worrisome, and—

Tenerife. 

That unnameable thing that broke through the gleaming sapphire when you whispered his name, and broke your own rules for the very first time. 

(You'll call me anyways.

Does it bother you?

Never. Wished you called more—)

You turn away from him, from the weight in his gaze when it finds you. Worried, somehow, that a single look will be enough to ferret the secrets out of you. 

A man in fatigues lingers in your periphery, standing awkwardly by the Starbucks entrance. He nods sharply when you catch his eye. 

"Guess we're up," you murmur, smile fading into placid neutrality. Getting caught riling up Captain John Price won't win any favours back in the concrete vacuum of Hereford. "Ready, cap?"

If he notices your sudden distance, he says nothing about it. His eyes drop to the phone clutched in his hand, before he rolls his massive shoulders. 

"Suppose so," he grumbles, slipping his phone into his pocket. 

Out of sight. 

Selfishly, you wonder who else he calls late at night, and find the burn of bitterness, jealousy to be some torturous form of retribution. 

It burns like a knife to your gut. You wallow in it. 

Price isn't a man known for his garrulity, and so, when he takes his seat on the plane, and immediately reaches for the files stuffed haphazardly into the zippered fold of his duffle bag, you take no real offence the undeniable abolishment of conversation. 

You're used to it, really. 

Silences that stretch on, culled by the hum of the engines cutting through the thin air some several hundred kilometres above sea level, are nothing novice. 

In turn, you take to flipping through the worn, jaundiced pages of a book you packed away in your carry-on specifically for this. Whatever secrets lay nestled in the crease of his rumbled folders doesn't matter to you—not yet, anyway—and you're content to enjoy something that you can pretend to be immersed with for the four hours you'll be sharing the scant space that separates the two of you. 

Pretending, of course, being the operative word. 

Price is a breathing furnace. The seams of his tight jacket crackle with unbridled heat that wafts against your arm when you settle into the chair. There is no armrest allotted to you with his sinewy bulk taking up most of the aisle and middle seat, and you feel each exhale when his frame almost melts into your own. 

Broad shouldered. Thick biceps. A tapered waist. Thighs quite nearly the width of a gnarled, hardened fir. It's hard to find space, privacy, with him bleeding out around you. It's hard to concentrate on anything that isn't the muted press of his covered flesh on yours, and, rather illicitly, the way it makes you feel. 

It's a rush of singular emotions nearly indistinguishable from each other, but all leaving you feeling like a raw nerve scrapped from muscle, and dissected from bone. Flayed with just a touch. 

The tremulous wake of them makes your body fight against the onslaught of the roaring deluge that rips through you. An amalgam of wishful anticipation, trepidation, and fear of being caught. Discovered. Having your dirty secrets, the one's you're not willing to share over a tea after midnight with a man who, despite knowing his greatest fear (the lives of his team over the stakes of everything, everyone, else), and his proudest accomplishment (getting the fuck outta Hereford while he still had the chance), galvanised out of you. Spilled into the open air. 

It comes too close to the lowered inhibitions you felt in Tenerife to ever sit well in the churning pits of your stomach. 

And so, you try to force some semblance of distance between your bodies despite there being none. The curved ledge of the plane window digs harshly into your forearm, but you still press into it more. 

Welcoming the ache, almost. 

It doesn't feel good, but it's a harsh reminder that the feelings pooling inside of your chest are wrong. 

A part of you, then, almosts hopes that the pain will soon become an almost Pavlovian reminder whenever you think of Price, and of—

Everything. 

Negative reinforcement. 

(Price and you; the thought brings pain.)

He mistakes your tension for nerves, and drops his chin down when you keep wriggling about, struggling to find a modicum of distance between the weight of him pressing against you. 

His expression is always oscillating between lour surliness and a pinch of frustration, and something in the middle of the two—glum, you think: stoic impassivity weighed down by heavy shadows—but the usual ire dims as the jet lurches down the runway. It's washed away in the tenebrous that leaks in from the empty interior of a military craft where it's just you and him and the pilots. 

A world where the stench of London dissipates into the familiar filtered scent of recycled oxygen that wafts through the open vents. Sterile, almost. Void of the grime, the pungent smell of stale petrol on the wet pavement, the distinct scent of the tube—sweat, fungus; putrid and ripe with something mouldy; tobacco and marijuana—and old cigarettes. 

(Smells like shite, he'd gripe if he knew you thought of it with fondness.) 

When he looks at you, you have to force yourself to remember hierarchy, propriety. Decorum. 

Distance. Reality. 

It aches, but you push it down. Swallow the words until they leak back into their cage, glued against the soft tissue of your oesophagus, and force something neutral, unbothered in your countenance while pretending as if you weren't choking yourself to death. 

"Alright?" He murmurs, words uttered low. Susurrus, almost. It's different from the phone calls where his voice is relaxed, muted; saturated in an ease, a warmth that lacks the usual snarl choked in the back of his throat. He talks with a degree of distance. Boxed into the role of unflinching, infallible leader even in this microcosm that bubbles between you. 

Still. It makes the air in your lungs stutter all the same. 

"Fine."

He hums, and the guttural vocalisation is adorned with the flat press of his disbelief. Price isn't the type to pry, though, and he takes your virginal lie with a mere shift of his eyebrows; a soft buoy of skepticism that is just scrutinising enough to let you flee if you so wish. 

You do, and so, you take it. Offering him a tight smile that you know will never reach your eyes, or any semblance of believability, but it's the most you can manage over the drumroll of your heart (now making serious threats of breaking through your ribcage, and leaping out of the jet), and the shallow gasps of your breath, a desperate struggle to quench the flames billowing in your lungs. 

He's so warm, you think, that he burns you. Fire spread from the heat of him, catching on the cindered embers lying in the soft fibrils of your being, and igniting you in a flameless smoulder. 

Price nods once, and you're unsure if it's in a gentle acquiescence of your bold-faced lie, or your quick prevarication, but you find yourself mimicking it all the same. 

Good, then. Settled. 

But he leans down instead of returning to the urgent press of files and papers all neatly stacked in a manila folder, and you come undone at seams when the scent of him envelops you. 

Crushed tobacco leaves, stale smoke, ambergris and vetiver. 

The headiness of his smell smothers you, and makes your hindbrain tense at the familiar, enticing miasma that seeps into your lungs, and fills your sinuses until it washes everything out but the gun cotton, and leather he reeks of. 

"Hmm, a bit early to start lying," he rasps, the words just as brittle as your crumbling resolve. "Ain't it?" 

Your breath shudders out of your lungs. Caught, then. Called out. The idea of confessing everything to him, all at once, passes through, but it's immediately dismissed. Shoved back into whichever crevasse it slunk out of. 

The fact that it even drifted through, sneaking past the tightly guarded prison it was kept in is enough to make you fluster. 

As if to hold them in, you sink your teeth into your tongue to keep from speaking the words that still echo in your head, and offer nothing more than a simple shake of your head, and some facsimile of a wry smile tossed in his general direction. 

He hums again, and the coo rumbles through his flesh and ripples across your skin. Electric shocks. Static buzz. The vibration of it shakes the doors of the mausoleum where everything is left to moulder, rot. 

A plume of nicotine dusts across your nose when Price shifts in his seat, much too small for a man with such broad shoulders, and thick thighs, and when you breathe in the heady scent of it, your head spins.

"We're all entitled to our secrets," he murmurs. His hair scratches against the fabric when he turns his head, chin notching down to bore into the side of your face. It's all you'll offer him when the rattling at the doors of your tomb dislodges a piece of rotten wood; lignin crumbles to the floor around you in stripped, fleshy white. A hole big enough to sink your fist through. 

"And that's fine, but—," his tone dips, timbre scorching through you when he speaks. The words are gritty, and coarse. They sink into your ears until the flesh is rubbed raw. The change in pitch makes you look up, wordlessly following the command that tangles around each vowel. Sharp, authoritative. This isn't John right now. It's Captain Price. 

His pelagic eyes are hardened into firm, dense sapphire lined with unbreakable obsidian. 

"But," he stresses the word again, brows arching high on his forehead until three, four, lines are carved into the pale skin. "Those secrets can't interfere with the mission, yeah?"

His stare is intense. Firm. Unyielding. He doesn't look away. Doesn't cower under the strange, too hot sensation that fills your head whenever you're forced to make eye contact for more than a few moments. 

It occurs to you, then, when he holds your stare for three, flinching inhales, that the only reason he's saying this is because he knows. Maybe not everything, maybe not all of it. But he knows enough that you're acting strange. Odd. Not yourself. 

Price sits back, and the loss of his intense stare boring into you, stripping you down to basal parts—raw and vulnerable—allows air to inflate your burning lungs. Oxygen bubbles and seeps into your bloodstream so quickly that you feel a little sick with it. Dizzy. 

"We clear on that?" 

His expression is guarded, pinched. 

You swallow thickly against the deluge of emotions that run down your spine, and wonder what he knows. What he pieced together already. It makes your heart slam against the flesh and bone cage it's prisoned in. 

His flat, phlegmatic expression seems to wobble. A frisson ripples, and splinters his reticent resolve, and he looks, in that moment, like the man who speaks to you late at night about his biggest worries, and fear. Touchable, reachable. It's a sharp contrast to the impenetrable man who stands at the top of the command post, and makes decisions of life and death. A stalwart leader made human.

You drink it in, trying to make sense of the softening of his gaze, the tremble of his moustache as his lips relax into an even line, but it's indecipherable. Unknowable. You struggle to piece the pensive, almost contemplative look together, but the gingerness in his expression snaps shut. 

All at once, it's forced back, and pulled taut. The drawing of a bridge. 

His lips flatten into a grim line. A divot forms between his brows. The tick in his jaw speaks of frustration, but—

Not at you. Never at you.  

You can't make sense of the enigmatic distance in his eyes—a floating island in the middle of the open ocean. Separated by the turbulent sea. 

Something changed between you. You feel the incipient shift trembling through your bones; a novice crack. The plates deep below the surface surge, and split; shattering into the other. The waters froth white as something begins to emerge from the depths. 

A new landmass, maybe. 

"Alright, then," he rasps, turning back back toward the files spread out on his lap. "Try to get some rest. We'll be jumpin' into the thick of it when we land."

You can see the hesitation in his eyes. The uncertainty in his mein. It's a sharp juxtaposition to how these strange missions usually unfold, where you both pour over documents, and leads, and have easy conversations between sharp, playful barbs, and impish quips to always devolve into some debate over something trivial. 

The silence is stifling. Oppressive. 

Tenerife, you think, when you drunkenly stumbled down the stairs, and into his arms, and—

Coldness. Frigid distance. He cut you off after that, and it was radio silence until last night when he called you.

You don't know what it all means, but Price is startlingly observant when it comes to you, and you wonder, with your heart thudding in your throat, just how much you gave away. 

A snag in the middle of lush green. You tremble. 

Into the thick of it, huh?

His words haunt you. 

(But when don't they?)

The novel—a neo noir mystery disguised as a romance—does little to capture your attention. Threads of interest snag on the ends of the protagonist's steadfast determination to not to let crime run rampant in the city he's taken a reluctant appreciation for, and to rescue his penultimate damsel from the crumbling affair she's trapped in with a married man of the mafia, but it dwindles after the discovery of the red herring. 

It sits, untouched, in your lap as you gaze out of the circular window. Plumes of thick, white clouds blanket the world below the plane, and look dense enough for you to almost believe you could stand on the curled peaks of the cumulonimbus. A mirage, maybe. 

(Or wishful thinking: you've always enjoyed chasing the unattainable.)

The sky above is a midnight blue that fades into lighter shades of lazuli as curves around the earth. 

A shade lighter, flecked with greens and golds and greys, and it might have looked just like his eyes. 

(Chasing, always chasing.)

The shock of it makes your leg twitch as your muscle tense back into that familiar state of constant fight or flight that Price always seems to put you in. Stage fright. Fear of discovery. 

Sometimes you wonder if it would be easier to just spit the words that have been coagulating in the back of your throat for years out now into the world, and let him run from them. 

Flee, like Tenerife. 

Does it bother you?

No, I wish you called my more—

—can't, love. Can't do that, you know I—

Dreams pop like rubber balloons around you. The snap of the recoil blisters your skin. 

A lesson, then, that there are certain words that should never be uttered, or mentioned.

He drew a sharp delineation between you and him. A line in the sand. Uncrossable. Unspeakable. 

Unignorable. 

Your heart aches, but you know it'll soon pass. Soon. Soon—

"Ready?" He asks when the wheels of the plane kiss the solid ground with a jolt, and the single word feels more augury than you'd like. 

It feels almost instinctual, then, to glance through the small window, eyes listing to the pale blue sky. Two chaffinches chase each other in the blooms of white, their plumage harsh against the idling clouds overhead. 

"Sure," you say, and wonder if he'd asked the same thing when you touched down in Tenerife. It doesn't matter. You shake the thought from your head, and try not to linger on the birds. 

Leave it for Agamemnon.

Despite his insistence to the contrary, it turns out to be the exact opposite of what was promised. 

Your idyllic vacation to the Romanian countryside is forfeited for the cold interior of Brașov where the man you're after, Iulian Mitrea, is hidden somewhere in the near hour long commute from here to Sinaia. 

Somewhere, of course, because no one is willing to tell you anything at all. From the moment you landed at Târgu Mureș Transylvania Airport, help from anyone within the country evaporated, dissolved. Mistrust was rampant between the soldiers here to help you on your hunt. 

You couldn't blame them, really. Not when their orders to stall, delay, and interfere came directly from above. 

It makes sense when you're trying to capture a well-known friend of several high ranking politicians worlds over. 

The pinch in their brow as they say, we don't know where he is, despite confirming only an hour earlier that they did, in fact, know where he was speaks volumes to their reluctance to participate in this farce. It needles inside of you because despite the irritation of the delay, you get it. 

If they help you catch him, their name will be in the report. People will talk to you. You get to go home with a wanted man nicely wrapped in a bow for Lady Justice, and they stay behind and face the ramifications of letting a man go who greases paws with men in power—politicians, businessmen, foreign diplomats. 

So. 

You get it. It doesn't make it any easier to swallow when you see them on the radio each time you get closer. 

It'll be a wait and see mission until someone either relents enough to let you get a headstart, or the bigger people in power finish the behind the scenes negotiations to protect as many people as possible from the fallout. 

Either way—

You're landlocked in a city that's never felt more hostile to you; stuck in stasis in the middle of a brutal winter. 

The inn is nice, you suppose. Old architecture. Its age sings with each movement you make against the wood that is nearly three generations older than you. It's plumed a dusting of disuse that sneaks into the corners where it rots, and stinks of mildew. 

But it feels unwelcoming each time you catch the eye of a soldier, a local police officer. The lady behind the counter of the front desk is oblivious to the tension bleeding between everyone, and offers toothy smiles whenever she catches you. Eager, you think, to talk to someone who doesn't respond in clipped tones. 

You soak up the rapid Romanian, and try to remember the phrases you picked up—much to her amusement. 

Her hand fixes itself permanently against her chest with each new pronunciation of the Romanian alphabet you pick up—breve, circumflex, S-comma, T-comma—and she seems eager to listen to prattle on in stilted Romanian with more appreciation than the men who are meant to be your partners. 

They linger, listening in on each conversation you have with the woman. Combat every effort of your futile attempt to salvage some holiday from this mess. 

They undermine Price at every junction. Cut his opinion down until it's shredded paper snowflakes on the icy cobblestone. A forgotten arts and craft project now mushy from the snow blanketing the world around you in an endless white prison. 

It's easy, you think, to just give up. 

But you know Price. 

Despite their delays, and mutterings to each other every time a lead pops up only to quickly slip through your fingers, he doesn't falter. He won't. Not until this is seen through. 

He'll fight to the bitter end. 

(You think he just might prefer to do his fighting on the battlefield instead of dabbling in subterfuge.

So. 

You do it for him.)

Your efforts amount to a burst vessle: a rumbling eruption spewing anger and tension at your feet like an angry volcano. 

And with it, you feel the words you try to swallow down buoy to the surface. 

This mission makes you feel like little more than some ornate polyptych, folded away for convenience sake, and unravelled in the privacy of his borrowed office. 

It's there where Price poses questions, and piques at you for more information. 

His tongue is too thick when he tries to speak the language echoed around you, unable to catch the proper slur on the t-commas and drag the breve out the way it should be spoken. It sounds somehow more French than it does Romanian, and you resolve to take the mantle of lacklustre translator for him, wondering whether he took your words as coming only for the holiday as sincerely as possible. 

It makes a needle of fondness grow in the gyral folds of your beating heart. A sudden deluge of empathy, and affection that makes you idealistically moony-eyed at his penchant for keeping promises. 

Still. 

It's unneeded. 

You take a proactive role in trying to find the man who keeps evading the grasping fingers of the law (however twisted it might be), and make it quickly known to him that you're here as a partner, at his behest, and not as some fancy tchotchke to be placed, indiscreetly, on the sidelines. 

It's unlike him, though. And you wonder more about the potential ramifications of this mission each passing day that you're stuck in the stifling confines of some luxury inn where the men around you whisper furiously to prevent your success. 

You ask him about it, and receive a piercing stare in response. A gruff, don't worry about it. This is my muck up, not yours. 

It hardens your resolve. 

All it takes is a few words whispered while rolling sarmale, and you manage to find a man in Brașov who might be hiding the person you're looking for. 

Information that turns out to be more fruitful than anything else thus far. 

You tuck it close to your chest. The man is landlocked and stuck, hidden in plain sight by the soldiers there to help you. He isn't going anywhere. 

But you might be. 

The lack of progress is noted by the people who requested your aid on this—the ones that must have conveniently forgotten that the person who kidnapped foreign dignitaries was also the man they had over for summer parties at their luxury estates in Dorobanți.  

They dangle Price's visa over his head during a massive row after—yet another—delayed piece of information is forwarded to you by the local police. By the time it lands in your hands, on his desk, it's too late. 

More blocks. More opportunities to catch the man squandered, lost to politics. 

The schism between Price and them widens. A wide chasm, uncrossable. 

You catch his eye, and wonder if you should share the secrets you keep, but you don't. Not yet, anyway. There's a mountain on his shoulders. A mess of politics that you know makes his blood boil. 

You want to ease the burden. The tension. 

But it doubles to a new height when one of the men jabs his finger in your direction, eyes blazing, and calls you his assistant. 

"My what?" Price's words are eerily calm despite the gyre welling in blue. "What did you say?" 

The man doesn't back down. Neither does Price. 

It's his warmth by your side, unflinching, as he stands tall and guarded, leaking anger and ruin at the slight against you. A white night in red-hot anger. 

You've fought your own battles, cutting your knuckles on cracked teeth until bone embedded itself into your cartilage like a macabre set of brass knuckles in jagged ivory. You throw punches like you're fighting for your life behind the screen of a computer that ticks away for eight hours, and pretend the emblem on your lapel doesn't weigh you down to the pavement below. Your own weight to carry. 

And you don't need this, don't want it, and a little part of you wants to rebel, to throw your fists around like they're the white-hot slugs spat out of the barrel of a firearm, but it's tapered down when he seethes beside you. 

His hands curl into fists before swinging up, latching onto the straps of his tactical vest. A defensive manoeuvre, you once thought, but now you know better. 

Price isn't clinging to the woven fabric to keep himself steady, to ground himself. It's to keep those burly fists from sinking into the gullet of the first man who wanders too close to the rapacious maw of a starving beast. 

Your eyes are fixed on the hairs dusted over his knuckles as he flexes and tightens his grip until they bleach white like dead coral, sharp bones threatening to break skin. 

Those hands once pressed you tight to his front, holding you steady as you stumbled through the haze of want, and longing, and kept you steady as the boat rocked with the calm waters of the neverending sea. 

(—wish you called more—

—don't know what you're sayin', love. What you're startin'. Gonna let you turn around, and pretend this never happened, mm?—

—but—)

They tightened then. Hard enough that the skin around your hip bones bulged between his thick fingers. Your flesh filling in his gaps. His eyes dropped there, fixed on the way you fit between him despite the pain that bloomed where his fingers dug deep. 

(—jus'... Walk away, love—)

Tenerife feels like a dream. A wisping cloud of want dredged from the depths of your subconscious yearning. 

But the ache in your side where his hands rested the night before kept you from casting away the words as drunken ramblings and masticated dreams. 

Those hands whiten under the strain of holding himself back, and you recognise the colour as the same shade when he held you. Paperweight. Featherlight. You wonder, then, your eyes only for him as the world you've been invited into erupts into chaos and blame tinged with the palpable weight of unwelcomeness and claustrophobia when he hasn't been holding himself back—

"Talk about 'em that way on more time, and I'll stick your goddamn heads on a post for that slimy bastard you want to protect so fuckin' bad to see—"

—from you.

You find him near the window, gazing out at the snow-covered roof-tops of the sprawling village below. 

He stands, his back angled toward you, with one hand curled around the crystalline glass, filled with three fingers of scotch—the perfect amount, he stresses, and gives credence to his sincerity with each winkle in his brow—and a lit cigar in the other.

Price brings the cigar up to his lips, eyes roaming across the smear of lights in the distance. You catch the spark when he inhales, the orange intensifying into an angry red. 

It casts a halo of orange on his face, and the fire makes him look somehow older and younger than he really is. An timeless visage of a man who, hours earlier, was recklessly throwing himself into the very same fire he syphons from as it burns the tobacco in his stem. 

The brief flash of red is complemented by the harsh dandelion-yellow from the illuminated city when it spills through the glass, frosted with condensation from the heat in the room, and the brutal chill kept at bay by a two inch glass panel. 

He's a composition in contrast. 

The only light inside the room is from the kindling fireplace, and the jaundiced lamp on the desk table, spilling over the documents you'd come to talk to him about. The dimly lit interior bathes his back in a clouded tenebrous, darkening the crevasses, divots, and the contoured folds of his body until they're shadowed in the gloam. It's perfectly juxtaposed to the highlights that catch in the warm golden glow of the sleepless city just below. 

A perfect chiaroscuro, you think. 

The sight of him, then, at peace—or as close to it as he can manage—steals the air in your lungs. The words on your lips. 

The look on his face is pensive, yet coloured in a hue of consternation that seems to quiver through the dark pools of blue gazing back at him. A ripple of disquietude. A splash of rumination. It all coalesces into an unfathomable knot of emotions that bloom in the deep divot of his brow. Ones you can't even begin to unravel. 

(But your fingers itch to try.)

There is something about him in absolute stasis—completely unguarded, and unburdened by the devastating world around him—that spools under your skin like a fever. A webbing nebula that weaves with the threads of venial sin until it tangles around you. 

When it tightens, it feels like a noose.

This moment of privacy between him and the thoughts locked tight inside his head makes you feel a little bit like you're intruding on a moment not meant for your eyes. A sacred thing. A voyeuristic spectator. 

You should leave. Let him have the sanctity of this moment to himself, where the pensive, introspective look etched into his brow is shared only with his reflection, and no one else. 

An unwitting birefringence. A glance inside Pandora's box. 

You try to tiptoe back in the direction you came from, a manila folder tucked under your arm, but the wood is worn. Aged. The floorboards creak when you press your heel into them, letting out a loud, jarring noise that seems to reverberate through the arched ceiling, and against the frosted glass that encompasses the vast majority of the eastern wall.

Loud enough, you think, to crack the class. His reverie. 

Price makes a noise in the back of his throat when he turns to you, brows drawn tight in wordless displeasure at the intrusion. Recognition bleeds into ashlar blue. His shoulders ease when he sets his steeled gaze on your cringing form, one foot out the door, and the other fixed firmly in your mouth. 

The way he relaxes when he finds it's just you melts some of the embarrassment away. The tension dissipates, sheds itself from his coiled muscles pulled taut from carrying the weight of everything on his broad back. 

(The world, then, is tucked into the corner when he dropped it earlier.)

"Sorry," you murmur, hiding another wince. "I didn't realise you were—" Brooding. Another grimace. Your foot slides deeper into your mouth. "Uh—"

"It's fine," he says, his voice hoarse from the growling threats he made against the Romanian diplomats who insisted on your help only to shrug off everything he suggested. 

He clears his throat before he speaks, taking the brief lull to drag his gaze down your form. Tendrils of something soft liquify the hardened edges of sapphire—a look you haven't seen on him since Tenerife—but it pauses at the folder you try, and fail, to discreetly tuck further into the crevasse of your body. Hiding it, futilely, from view. 

Something sours across his face. The half melted azure firms into unbreakable obsidian. 

"Business as usual, then?" 

You huff. "Not if you don't want that." 

Price inhales deeply at your words, and you know that he can't. He won't. 

You mourn the loss of that soft, unfathomable look on his face when the only concern he had was the condescension from his breath hiding the view of Sinaia from his appreciative gaze. 

A look full of something aching. A want, maybe; a need. Things you can't begin to connect to your stalwart captain. 

But then you think, again, of Tenerife. When he caught you mid-stumble, hands heavy and hot on your flesh. The look on his face ages younger than the grey around his temple would lead you to believe. 

"Careful," he murmured, eyes lighter somehow as he pulled you in closer to his side. "Can't go falling all over the place." 

It was your quip of, "but you'll catch me, won't you?" that made him feel almost reachable when he turned away from you, the tips of his ears dusting a pretty pink. 

"Jus' watch where you're goin'."

You think about it now—about the unfathomable distance between the stars. 

Between you, and him. 

(And then of broken walls you mend with your own hands.)

"Jus' bring it here," he mutters, moving toward the desk cluttered with everything he was trying to avoid. The desk you brought him back to. It pinches something sour inside of you. "I'll 'ave a look at it."

Price sets the glass down, and reaches for the crystal ashtray left near the edge of the table. When he drags it closer to the fish-shaped map of Romania, decorated with little red stickers of possible hideouts for the man you're supposed to be catching, you count four ends of a cigar in the mess of ashes, all smoked down to the stem. 

Concern gnarls in your gut. 

"Busy day for you, Captain?"

All he gives in a noncommittal grunt in response before eying the chair with a touch of wariness as if sitting down now will prevent him standing up again. It might, you think, tentatively taking stock of the neverending pages on the desk just waiting for him to tackle. A ceaseless maelstrom that tries to drag him down that endless abyss that leaves stress marks on his forehead, grey hairs around his temple, and grinds his bones down until marrow below is exposed to the rotten air. 

He doesn't sit. A pointed gesture. 

The heels of his palms rest on the edge of the table, and he leans forward over the papers strewn in his familiar organised chaos, and drops his head down between the bracket of his arms, locked at the elbows. 

He's the very picture of exhaustion. 

"I don't have anything good to share with you," you murmur, tone low and susurrus as if raising above an octave will shatter the fragile glass that houses the two of you from the brutal storm outside these four walls. "Mostly a complete repeat of what already happened—"

"Bullshit," he grinds the cuss out like the potency of his tenor will somehow strengthen it into a hex. "Fuckin' politics."

"Nothing we haven't dealt with before," you note, turning to lean against the desk. You mirror his pose in the reverse, fingers curling around the ledge. "It'll smooth out eventually."

He considers your words, lids sliding to half-mass. Lost in thought. In—

Something. 

You're not privy to the war in his head. The battle he struggles through. 

But you want to be. 

You'd give anything to fight alongside him in this moment of quiet contemplation. To aid him in the pursuit of victory, and help ease the burden he carries on his broad shoulders. A weight that makes his heels dig deeper into the ground than any other man you've met. Gravity falls on him harder than the others, but he never folds. Never falters. 

Something shifts when you tilt your head toward him, waiting. Watching. 

Irritation drips down, polluting the cenote until it's a gyre grey. Clouded with the poison of choices that lay in front of him. 

"Maybe," he settles on, rolling one shoulder to alleviate the burn in his tense muscles. "Would be easier if they'd just bloody listen—"

"They will."

His eyes flicker up to you, curling with something playful, you think. Or as close to mirth as the shadows in his brow will allow. 

"You gonna make them?" 

The tone of his voice—smoke cured, molasse thick—is blunt, but—

Baiting. 

Loose tendrils of smoke weep from the end of his forgotten cigar, and curls in the air between you. You taste ash, and feel the burn of nicotine when you breathe in. 

It does little to quell the spike of nerves gnarling in your chest; the itch under your skin. 

Something brims in your pulse. A rapaciousness that seems to burn through your arteries until they're blistered from the heat. You lean back on the desk, knees locking until your legs are straight to alleviate the anxious knot growing in your stomach. 

His gaze drops to your legs when your ankles cross, sliding up to the softness of your thighs now spread plush over the wood. 

Another shift. Poisoned grey darkens into thick tar. Bog water. You wonder how long it would take for anyone to find you if you sunk below the thin film of pleats, swallowed whole by the fen. 

Imprisoned in his clutch. 

"For you? Anything—"

The words slip out before you can stop them. 

His head jerks up. The roundness of his almond shaped eyes can only be derived from your slip-up, to your unintentional confessional between secondhand smoke, and borrowed nicotine. 

A mistake, you think. An accident. A follie. 

But the words are lodged under the syrup-y thick water that leaks down your throat. 

You swallow again, but it feels like you're drowning. 

An impasse. Brutal, and uncrossable. You wonder what he might say, what he might do, and try to ignore the ache in your chest, the bitter throb of anticipation as the lines in his brow deepen, darkening with the stains of his indecision. 

That same wellpool of emotions buoys in ashlar blue when he stares at you, plain faced and—

A touch uncertain. 

It's strange to see him so unsure, so hesitant. 

Price isn't a man who falters in the face of anything. Who concedes, and surrenders. 

His tenacity is what drew you to him. That staunch perseverance that you sometimes wish you could fill each hairline fracture in your soul with. To somehow syphon the staggering presence of him, indomitable and ferocious when he needs to be, into your marrow where it'll congeal and paint the walls of your bones with the same stalwart dedication to a singular gospel that he carries with ease.  

He huffs, then, and the exhale reeks of stale cigarette butts in a damp ashtray. 

"Don't know what you're getting yourself into, love—"

Something flickers across his face, and you wonder if he even meant to say it. Or if the endearment slipped out, oiled by the same elixir that covered your throat and coaxed something closer to the truth, to your hidden wants, out of the depths of your yearning. 

It's unfathomable, though. The mere idea of it being drug from the same hidden well as yours itches between your ribs; a blossom of something featherlight. Hopeful. 

When you look at him, eyes scouring the dividing lines between the face he shows the world—the one with a deeply furrowed brow and obsidian clotting in the crevasses of liquid sapphire; a stalwart sense of detachment, and pointed distance—and the one he shows you.

With you, though—

With you, he's always asymmetrical. 

A singular brow notching up at something audacious you said; one side of his mouth lifted in a crooked grin. The flash of teeth when you murmur under your breath about the stuffy politicians you're meant to be saving. 

Rusted picket fences. Faulty hinges. Open, lax. Void the usual symmetry that makes him Captain John Price; a stalwart presence on the battlefield, shoulders strong enough to lift the morale (and morality) of every soldier under his commands. Has to, you think, or he might implode, crumbling under the stifling weight of his utilitarian choices, and the actions guised under the moral grey dust of patriotism. 

It clings to him. Scars shaped like canines: the teeth of an old, rotten dog. Nightmares in absenteeism. 

He never tells you about them, ever; but you've gotten more than a handful of phone calls during devil's hour to know they haunt him just as much as they do you. 

(And if you've taken to turning your ringer on as high as it will go—just in case—then that's a secret between you and midnight blue sheets.)

The look on his face now makes you think of that mission in Tenerife, when his fingers curled around your wrist after landing in Heathrow. Warm, flushed skin. Rough like a cat's tongue when it slid over your flesh. 

He stopped you from leaving, eyes shaded in stagnant blue as the taxi idled in front of you. 

"Could go for a coffee. Want to come?" He asked, and it was unlike him to stall, but the prospect of more time, and coffee, numbed you to it all. 

You didn't give it much thought, but the words feel almost sibylline now. Hindsight, you think: that pesky little thing that makes you feel like Lleu, caught in the crosshairs of a feud between Arianrhod and Gwydion.

Over burnt, bitter beans and coffee flavoured water, he said: "don't get much sleep anymore." 

"Our late night phone calls don't bore you to sleep?" 

It was a pawkish barb not meant to be taken seriously, but Price, you find, is percipient when it comes to you. 

"No, they don't." He shifted in his chair, eyes cutting toward the mid-morning haze dusting the streets of London in a fine periwinkle blue. He looked older, somehow, in the virginal rays of the dawning sun. The words that slipped out felt softer, subdued in a way that made you wonder if they were meant to be uttered at all. "I sleep much better after them, actually."

Price has a strange ability to leave you both speechless and full of words. Of things, mundane and inconsequential, that you long to spill out over the linoleum countertop. 

More often than not, they're just naked, bare. Raw words not yet shaped or formed into any semblance of meaning, but ones you want to say, anyway. If only to keep the conversation going. To keep him around a moment longer. 

(After all: if the conversation does end, he can't leave.) 

But your lips are glued. Words stuck in the wet ashes that congeal in your throat. 

Your eyes followed the breadcrumbs of his gaze, and found the quieted road of Liverpool Street staring back at you. Drenched in cobblestone grey, and smeared in industrial neon. An uninspiring visage of some secluded corner tucked away from the tourist trap of central London. 

The near hour long drive from Heathrow to London for a cup of coffee is another mystery. Why he invited you where, of all places, isn't known to you. 

He paid for the coffee, the taxi. Said nothing at all but walked you back to your flat in London, the place you stay after each mission brings you back to Heathrow. It's a near twenty-nine minute commute in the opposite direction.

Said no when you offered him a place to sleep for the night, and you tried not to let the bitter sting of rejection show while his fingers curled around the wooden frame of your front door, knuckles turning white from the strain of—

Hindsight, you think. 

The shift in his gaze when his hand snared around your wrist. When he hailed a taxi for burnt coffee in the middle of a city that he couldn't stand—a place you'd heard many tirades about in the middle of the night, all leading back to the same reason for his staunch hatred of London: it's too bloody far from Liverpool. Too bloody far from him. 

When he turned to look out the window to watch your reflections contrasted against drab, grey London. 

Earlier, when he was gazing at the city below. 

It clicks, then. 

He wasn't staring out the window. He never was. 

"Why didn't you come into my flat?" You ask, words thick. Heavy. 

His nostrils flare. "What—?"

"That night in London, after Tenerife—I asked you to spend the night. Why didn't you—"

White knuckles. The look on his face was—

Pensive. Dusted with consternation. Just like—

Now. Then. All the moments in between. 

Like many things in conjunction to this, it's probably your fault. An unignorable truism that sits under your skin like an itch you can't scratch no matter how viciously you claw at your dermis. 

You could have asked, but it wouldn't have mattered. 

The answer was staring at you this whole time. 

Why he called you in the middle of the night. Why he never even bothered to entertain your application to join the 141. Why he looked so troubled when you invited him in. Why he kept you at arms length this whole time, but let you see the gnarled ruins of his soul in the middle of night. 

The delineation of your relationship was drawn in the distance of a phone call at midnight, ones made not because he was lonely or bereft of comfort—

But because he could hang up before he said too much. Widen the gap with a press of his finger. 

You can see him try to pull back again. To put a distance between you greater than this lonely hotel in the middle of Brașov  to Orion's Belt. 

Words—stay, don't, why—caught in your throat. They refuse to come out. A conversation trapped. One you can't start. 

(You've always been better with actions than words.)

And so, you kiss him instead. 

A cacoëthes. 

It's less of a kiss and more of a messy punch to his mouth with your blistered lips. 

Your trembling fingers curl into the straps of his tac-vest. For leverage, maybe; or to hide the quiver in your joints from his widening eyes. 

His mouth parts, wry curls flutter when he inhales sharply. Words, you think, like: what're you doin'? or this is sexual harassment and I swear to god I'll sue—

You don't let him finish. Don't let him start, either. 

You fall back on the desk, yanking on his straps. He jerks forward. 

You meet, clumsily, in the middle. An awkward assemblage of limbs; bodies cut across each other like an unfinished T. 

It's messy. More sealed lips glueing together than it ever could be considered a proper kiss. 

There are moments leading up to this that, in hindsight, make everything seem almost inevitable. The look on his face. The ache in your chest. It blooms from the same vine; a want in spades. You almost weep when he groans against your mouth, teeth knocking together. You taste heme in the back of your throat, and nearly choke on it when his fingers curl under your jaw, holding you steady as he tries to devour you whole. 

It sheds threads of kismet, and tastes a little of finality when you brush your lips against his again, meeting in the middle: a perfect equilibrium. Absolute congruence. 

(Or, maybe, it's the thrill of his taste that shades everything else in a roseate veil; that swallows down the other moments, trials and tribulations that felt more gruelling than your training, and lets the others surge to the surface. Moments of heartache, and pain, and—

And it doesn't matter, you think, a touch delirious; not when you know what his hands feel like when they curl around your waist, when his fingers dig into your skin, and he pulls you closer.)

"Listen—" the word is mangled in his throat; charred from the fire that burns in his lungs. "You need to know what you're getting yourself into."

"You say that like I haven't been thinking about it for years, John." 

It sobers him a bit. He pulls back until a thin strand of space sits between your wet lips and his moussed beard. 

The implication in your words makes his eyes darken. Lids fluttering. 

Want, palpable and thick, pulses in the charged atmosphere between you. A microcosm of your own design: a place carved from stone, ashlar, and shaded in the midnight blue of his eyes. A roseate gossamer falls, veiling you in that corusating haze that makes the world look prettier than it really is. 

Shades of rose. 

The breath he pulls in is tremulous.

When he speaks, it sounds like an orison. A plea. "That so?"

It's a weighted question. Benediction paints his throat, stains the words when they slip out. 

 "Kept me waiting for quite a while."

"Didn't think you were waiting." His hands sear your skin when they slide up your back. His forehead falls, resting against yours. "Not much to sit around and pine over, love." 

It makes you scoff, a wet noise in the back of your throat. "You think I answer my phone in the middle of the night for just anyone?"

"No," he murmurs. His hand lifts, cups your cheek in the seat of his palm. "But I'm not jus' anyone, am I?" 

"Nope. Your a walking contradiction on how—sometimes—nepotism isn't all bad—"

"Watch it."

"Or what, John?"

You're distinctly aware of the age-old idiom about playing with fire, but when he dips his chin, and narrows his eyes at you like that, you find you don't really care much about getting burned. 

His nostrils flare, eyes dark, and hungry. A warring pelagic storm looms over ashlar. Gyre grey. Arsenic white. You want to stain the tips of your fingers in the liquid blooming in his gaze. 

"Might need to teach you a lesson in respect."

"Might need to teach you not to keep someone waiting." 

His mouth is searing it when it presses to yours. 

"Touchè."

Price tastes of saltpetre. 

Thick, ichorous. An heady elixir that sits heavy on your tongue, leaking down the back of your throat when you swallow. 

A fine sheen of nicotine paints his teeth from the forgotten cigar burning in the ashtray on the table, and when you swipe your tongue across them, chasing the secondhand buzz, it feels anxiolytic. Your head is a slurried mess from it all, and the way he feels beneath you. 

Hard edges, broad—massive. 

His chest expands with each deep inhale. Shoulders tense with the effort of holding himself back. A fact, you find, is more intoxicating than the nicotine on your tongue, or the saltpetre blooming in your veins. 

The width of his thighs make your muscles burn when you perch your knees on the cushion beside them, the stretch a deep burn that feels more arduous than a workout. 

You're not supposed to be kissing your captain. 

To be sat on his lap while his big hands roam your skin, sliding down the knobs of your spine, thumb pressing the grove of each one. Massaging your sides when you gasp into his mouth, a wet noise full of the burn in your joints, the want in your belly—an ache, a need for more. More. More—

It was meant to be professional. 

At work, on the field, in the stuffy headquarters of the SAS building in Hereford, it's meant to be distant. Cold. And—

And not this. 

Not spread open in his lap, one palm cupping the soft cheek of your ass and squeezing until the flesh bulges from between his splayed fingers. Not heaving his name out in a palpable supplication drenched in want. Need. 

Needy. 

"Look'it you," he'd rasped into your neck hours earlier, slick with sweat from your impromptu training lesson in the comfort of his office. "So fuckin' needy—"

And you were. Are. 

"C'mon, cap," you gasped, nose pressed taut against his temple, tongue chasing the briny tang that saturated his hairline. "Give it to me—"

He did.

Over and over and over again. Bending you over hard wood of his desk until your face was full of reports and papers, missions and confidential files on things, and people you'd rather not think about while your captain was spreading you apart with his tongue, and three fingers, and—

It was too much. Not enough. A paradoxical realm where pleasure and pain melded into a single entity. It's veins coursed with a potent cocktail of everything you could easily become addicted to—oxytocin, dopamine, endorphins rich enough to make you dizzy for aeons when it saturated all those gullible receptors in your head—and when he touched your skin with his bare hands, you felt the prickle of it leaking into your bloodstream. 

The rough husk of his voice rasping out his pleasure in your ear is an audible opiate; euphoria condensed into decibels. It rattles your synapses. Your bones. You quiver under his bulk, eager for more. 

Aching for it, really. Want him so badly that it hurts. 

Even after he'd taken his time to prepare you, made you cum from his mouth, his fingers, more times than the chemical slurry of your melting mind could ever try to keep up with, it isn't enough. 

Wasn't. 

His cock feeding into you, stretching you open around the thick of him, until the world around you was awash in pure bliss in the most beautiful shade of blue, wasn't enough. 

"More," you gasped, nerves throbbing like a bruise. Bones battered, rusted from the force of him taking you over and over again. "More, John—please—"

He obliged each time. Sliding home until all you could feel was him pulsing inside of you. The heavy weight of his hips notched against your ass. The branding heat of his hands gripping your hip, fingers curling around your shoulder, as he held you steady for him. 

(Over and over again—)

Price smells of tobacco when he leans in close. Damp ash. The wet end of a cigarette butt. Stale smoke. Mossy, loam. You breathe in the bitter scent of him until it floods your lungs, clotting in each fibril until it's heavy with the tarish resin that leaks from the end of burning cigar. 

"Greedy fuckin' thing," he hissed in your ear, fingers delving into you, feeling his release squelch around him. "Ain't you?"

"Always," you huffed, struggling through the onslaught of your mind buzzing for one more, just one more hit, and your body screaming for respite. "Always for you, John—"

"Stubborn, mm?" 

He didn't give you one more. John is attune to you in ways you'd never anticipated. He just—knows you. Can easily see through the desperation for victory clawing at your throat, sinking it's nails into the delicate skin of your jugular, and hissing rapacious demands that rattle through your vocal chords. 

When he meets the apogee of your mettle, he pulls back. Edging away from the battered fold of your limits once he brings it to a new precipice, a new level. 

Price pulled you against him when your fawn-legs quiver, knees threatening to buckle, and tucked you against his chest, a protective embrace while he murmured words of gratitude, admiration, into your crown. 

That was hours ago, and now—

The hunger rears. Your want is a perfect personification of greed, lust, pride, gluttony all coalescing into a molten desire that spools together, knotting tight against your chest where it tightens in a vice. A pretty bow of your searing need for the man whispering heavenly words of ardour into your damp skin. 

"Price—"

He stops the whine with a nip of teeth against your jugular. "Come on, now," he bares the flat of them on your skin, pinching soft tissue between his incisors. "Rest a bit, love. Jus' wanna hold you, yeah? Jus' like this." 

He leaks benzene, arsenic, and formaldehyde when he murmurs your name into the sticky column of your throat. 

(And when he whispers it so softly, reedy benediction dipped the brush of his blunt affection, how could you ever deny him anything?)

Your arms thread around his nape, wrists locking together behind him. 

The ticking of the clock on the wall is just another reminder of how little time you have, and yet— 

"Stay," he murmurs against your jaw, whiskers scratching your chin. 

Jet-lag. Exhaustion. Wishful thinking. 

Whatever the reason might be, you pry your lips apart and choke out the words that have rattling inside your head from the moment you felt his chest bloom beneath your palms, and knew—without any doubt or uncertainty—that you would follow this man to hell and back if it meant you stand inches away from him for the rest of your meagre existence. 

A tortuous whim. An exquisitely agonising proposition. 

But you've always been rather smitten with poems that break your heart into pieces. Ones where you leave a little part of yourself between the lines that eviscerate your pericardium until you taste heme in the back of your throat. 

Price reminds you of those poems. Ones that blugeons into you with a force so heavy and full, it feels as if it was written just for you. A pain so robust and brutal, that you're sure the lines in Times New Roman were first etched into your bones before they were spilled across the stark white page in black ink. Rotten blood between the pages of your barren soul. 

Your fingers run through the mess on his crown, slick with sweat from earlier, and you nod, mind wandering down that path that leads to closed doors, a locked mausoleum, and with your bruised knuckles, broken nails, and bent fingers, you pry it open. 

Finally, finally—

The words claw up your throat, grasping at the stretch of freedom within reach, and you—

Let them go. 

"Wouldn't go anywhere without you." 

(Not ever again.)

[causeihatetheclipboard]

𝓐𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓵

[ 𝑺𝒂𝒍 𝑵𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 ]

WARNING : this work is 18+, minors do not interact

CONTAINS : Praise kink, Sal having no idea what he's doing

WORD COUNT : 1.4k

A/N : This is probably incredibly OOC and written poorly, i wrote this from the hours of midnight to four in the morning. I am but a horny creature, I apologize. Meant to include more religious imagery but I got lazy. Honestly forgot half of what I wrote here but fuck it we ball.

“Sal?”

Your voice pulled Sal out of his thoughts and he finally looked at you properly. You were sat in his lap, your pants and undergarments already having been removed before you had sat yourself down. His clothes were still on and were becoming increasingly uncomfortable.

“Yeah?” Sal's voice almost wavered. He didn't want to seem pathetic — you'd run off if he did, he feared — but his confidence wasn't exactly high in this situation.

“We don't have t—”

“I want to.” He interrupted you before you could finish. “I do, I really- I want to so badly,” One of his hands went to your hip to pull you closer, the other resting on your thigh, “I.. I just- I don't.. I ain't used to this, that's all..” That was an understatement.

“Sal,” You said his name so softly he nearly whined, “That's alright. We can go at your pace, hm? Just like we talked about.” You placed your hand over his, the one that was gripping your thigh with a careful intensity as he tried to ground himself with the feel of you against his fingers.

“I'm not-” Sal took in a sharp breath, “I'm not gonna be any good at this.” His voice came out in a weak mumble, audible but quiet.

Your hand gently squeezed his. “You being yourself is good enough.” You said. Your other hand went to the nape of his neck, grazing his hair while you leaned in and gave a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. He leaned into you immediately, unable to stop himself as a soft whimper escaped his throat.

Sal's pants felt all too tight at this point. He kept his hand on your thigh, but moved the other one to pull off his belt. Part of him wanted to remove all of his clothes, but another part of him was too afraid to do so. Going as far as he had was an achievement enough, though, he thought. Removing everything during the first time wasn't necessary.

Your hands moved to rest on Sal's shoulders while you lifted yourself up so that he could pull down his pants and briefs. He did so with little hesitation, letting the garments settle close to his knees. His cock, hard and pulsating, had practically sprung out while he had been pulling down the clothing.

With himself now exposed, one of Sal's hands went back to your waist while he used the other to position himself under you. Just the thought of you lowering yourself down onto him was already making him twitch. He could already feel the warmth of your pussy against the very tip of his cock. It was intoxicating.

“I-” He was struggling even more with his words now, fighting his own tongue to get them out, “This.. This ain't gonna hurt ya, right?”

You smiled at his consideration. “No, I'll be just fine. You focus on satisfying yourself, baby, okay?”

He only nodded in response to that as words were failing him. His hand gripped your waist firmly as you moved yourself down, your cunt slowly enveloping his sensitive cock. The warmth and tightness made him involuntarily whine. “Fuck,” He gasped, “You're… You're so- so warm, too warm..” His head fell forward slightly, resting against your shoulder.

“That's it,” Your voice came out almost breathless as you continued to lower yourself, “Good job, baby, that's it. So good.”

Once you were fully down, Sal let out a long, shaky sigh. His face was now buried in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. You felt like pure heaven.

He slowly rolled his hips upwards, his cock pressing deeper into you. Hearing the breathless moan that had left your lips as he did so only spurred him on.

“That- ohh fuck,” You gasped, “Just like that, Sal, please..”

With that encouragement, Sal started to move more firmly. He didn't want to be too rough with you, of course, but he was struggling to keep his movements slow. He thrusted up into you with an uneven rhythm, his hips jerking rather than rolling.

“Fuck- Sorry,” Sal mumbled after a particularly hard thrust, “I just- I can't..” He pressed his mouth to the nape of your neck, silencing any further words.

“No, baby, you're good,” You panted out, your fingers running through his hair, “I can handle it, I.. I can handle it, okay?” You turned your head to kiss his temple. “You're doing so well, Sal, I promise.”

The praise and reassurance was all Sal needed.

He pushed you onto your back, being mindful not to hurt you in the process. You immediately adjusted to the new position and wrapped your legs around his waist. Both of his hands moved to your waist again as he started to thrust forward while simultaneously pulling your hips towards his own. The new angle allowed him to thrust deeper into you, earning so many beautiful sounds from your lips.

Sal's head rested near your shoulder again while he pressed his lips to your neck. The kisses he gave were sloppy, but far from unpleasant.

One of Sal's hands moved from your hip to your thigh — which he quickly maneuvered to rest over his shoulder, further opening you up for him. It felt as though all the pent up need that had built over the years was consuming him all at once. His hesitation had left, replaced with raw want. He couldn't think properly. His usually coherent thoughts were gone, and in their place was you. You, who had become a beautiful mess underneath him.

“You,” Sal shuddered as he grinded further into you, “You're an angel, y'know that? Just so.. So divine and s.. soft..”

He tilted his hips slightly, trying to find that perfect angle that would have you crying out for him. He found it easily, earning the sweet sounds from your lips that he was craving. His lips went back to your neck, leaving a wet trail from there to your shoulder. He didn't bite you, but his teeth grazed your skin. His movements were unpracticed and clumsy, but that didn't seem to be causing any displeasure for either of you.

“Mine,” Sal suddenly mumbled against your skin, “My angel, my perfect angel.. All mine, huh?” He started to speak a bit more clearly now, his thrusts more rough than they were before. “You- You're all mine, yeah? Say it, angel, please, c- c'mon..”

Your response came out breathlessly, “I- I'm yours, Sal, all yours.. All yours..”

Sal let out a deep groan at that. His thrusts were becoming uneven, but they kept the same intensity. His cock was throbbing now, getting ready to shoot out ropes of cum. The thought of doing so inside you was thrilling, and only made the throbbing worse.

“Oh fuck,” Sal whimpered, “Please- Please, Angel, please,” His thrusts became extremely shallow, “I wanna- wanna cum inside you, please, let me- let me, please..”

You had nodded before verbally responding with a barely audible, “Please do.”

Sal's entire body shuddered as he heard your permission, the words immediately triggering his orgasm. “Fuck,” He hissed through his teeth as his hips jerked uncontrollably and his warmth spilled into you, “Thank.. Thank you- fuck, thank you..”

His climax seemed to trigger yours, and he loved watching your expression change. You looked angelic. Your head tilted back, eyes closed.. an image of pure bliss. He could stare at you for hours like this if you'd let him.

After taking a few seconds to catch his breath, Sal eventually spoke again. “I wasn't.. Wasn't too rough, was I?” He asked, sounding worried. “I did good, right?”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh at that. “Yeah, baby,” You interlaced your fingers with his, “You did good. Perfect even. My perfect Sal.” Your other hand went to his cheek as you softly kissed his lips.

Sal melted at the feel of your lips against his. The slow and gentle movements were a stark contrast to his movements a minute prior. Without the adrenaline running through his veins, Sal felt almost boneless.

Your arms gently wrapped around his torso and you coaxed him to lay down on top of you. His arms slowly copied your movements, wrapping around you as he settled his head against your chest.

“Tired, baby?” You asked softly, one of your hands moving to his hair.

Sal nodded, his eyes now closed. “Mhm..”

You let out a soft, amused sigh. “Hm.. How about you rest for a bit, then we can take a nice, warm bath together, hm?”

Sal nodded again, more slowly this time as the exhaustion caught up to him. “That'd.. That'd be good, Angel..”

[farfromstrange]

Foreigner’s God | m.m

series masterlist

Matt Murdock x avenger!OFC

Chapter forty: Monster

Summary: She has a tendency to get herself in trouble for the greater good. This time though, she goes a little too far. Matt feels responsible to put a smile back on her face and restore the faith in herself.

Warnings: ANGST, attempted sexual assault (read at your own risk), Canon typical violence, vigilantism, knives, blood, use of mutant powers, heavy make-out session, SMUT (18+), nipple play, vaginal fingering, p in v sex, dry humping (?), degrading, dirty talk, praise kink, choking, multiple orgasms, basically sex doesn’t always go according to plan and sometimes stuff goes wrong, Matt Murdock’s ever present catholic guilt, crying, religious imagery and symbolism

a/n: Before you ask, yes this is inspired by a Frozen (The Musical) Song. Do I regret it? No. After being sick for an entire week, I have finally finished this goddamn chapter… it’s not my best work, so I apologize in advance. I reread it so many times, but it still feels rushed even though I incorporated every last plot point I wrote down. There’s just so much and now I’m insecure I screwed this up. But oh well, it won’t get any better than this. I tried. I can’t get anything better down. And I tried something… new? With this, so that’s kind of exciting, and I hope y’all like it anyway, even if it might not be what you expected and were so excited for.

Also, Melvin was always one of my favorite characters because he’s adorable and Eliza deserves this. (Also go Matt for being such an amazing boyfriend!!) posting the graphics for this chapter tomorrow or smth…

18+ MINORS DNI

The streets were dark and gloomy. She walked down the road to Matt’s apartment - her apartment with her head hung low and her keys clutched tightly in her fist. The other hand held her phone close to her ear as she listened to the voicemail announcement of the man she called.

“This is the third time I’ve called now. If you don’t call me back soon, I have to assume you’re dead somewhere,” said Eliza, taking a peek over her shoulder, “I read Tony’s letter, Happy. I can’t reach him and Pepper won’t answer her phone either. We need to talk. Call me back!”

She couldn’t reach Tony. His phone was off or disconnected, she wasn’t sure, so Happy was her last resort. Though no matter how many times she blew up his cell, he didn’t answer. His mailbox was full of missed messages now, but as long as it got him to call her back, she would gladly annoy him. The fear something might have happened nagged at her chest. He was known for not answering his texts or his calls right away, and she usually didn’t mind if he decided to take his privacy seriously, but she had seen what the world was capable of and how much pain it could cause to good people, and she wanted to prevent him from getting hurt again. Not receiving an answer to her pleas made her uneasy and she had to refrain from jumping into the closest cab and driving to the compound.

“Let me know you’re alive, at least,” she added before hanging up the phone for the third time and shoving it back into her pocket. “Asshole,” the curse slipped from her lips into the darkness. She had grown more vigilant over time and his lack of communication twisted her stomach into an uncomfortable knot.

She swore, after she almost died, she would not get herself into reckless trouble again. She swore she would be smarter.

Turns out, she wasn’t.

The second Eliza heard the scream of distress, her instincts sprung into motion.

“Don’t do it,” she whispered to herself.

The last time she acted on the scream of a distressed woman, she walked straight into Hydra. It was a deja vu of the bittersweet kind. She could call the cops and move on. Though by the time they arrived, whoever was attacking that woman would already have gotten what they wanted.

“Goddamn it!”

Matt would lose it.

She pressed against the wall right before the alley. She could make out two voices; a man and the cries of a woman begging for mercy.

“Fuck me,” she groaned. “I’m gonna do it.”

If she could prevent a woman from suffering the worst fate she possibly could, she had to do something. She had the strength to fight, and it was because of that that she chose to jump in.

The man turned to her when he heard the sound of her boots on the asphalt.

“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” she said.

The woman’s eyes widened at the sight of Eliza’s red eyes, and she cowered further against the wall. There was no light on her face, so recognizing her face was nearly impossible. She stepped out of the dark slowly and into the moonlight, hoping to instill some fear before this could get ugly. It didn’t work. They were too stupid to recognize her.

He chuckled darkly. “Today seems to be my lucky day,” he said. “Two for one. I’m sure we’d have so much fun together, but I’m afraid you’re gonna have to wait your turn.”

“Oh, shut up!”

“Uh, feisty. That’s even hotter.”

“How about I shove my foot so far up your ass, it comes back out of your mouth?”

“Damn, didn’t your parents teach you any manners?”

“My parents are dead,” she deadpanned. “And I don’t have manners.”

“Are you really going to make this harder for me?” The man sighed. “I was having such a great time. And she was, too.” He pointed to his crying victim. She shook her head, the rest of her paralyzed, and she held her hands in front of her body as some form of protection.

Eliza bared her teeth. “You disgust me,” she spat. “Leave her alone. She didn’t do anything. If you want to get your hands on someone, do it on me.”

“Did you just ask me to do you?”

“Why is it that men can’t grasp the concept of a simple no?”

“Look at that skirt,” he retorted. “You can’t say you’re not asking for it. And her?” He pointed at the young woman. “Hers is even shorter, I can already see her ass hanging out.”

“No,” her soft cry filled the alley. “I didn’t… please, I just want to go home.”

“You heard her,” said Eliza. “Let her go. If you want to ruin someone’s life, you can ruin mine. Take your shot! See where this gets you.”

“Aw, where’s the fun in that?”

He wasn’t just drunk, he was born cruel. The man reached down to grab the woman’s shirt and haul her up,

Her hands started to glow, as did her eyes, and she turned into the thing she had tried to push down the past couple of weeks. She let the darkness consume her, let the foreign energy take control, and rise to her true potential. She hadn’t discovered the truth just to keep the stone hidden. It was there and lying in wait for a reason. What she didn’t expect was for it to feel so strong - it felt strong to the point it bordered on overwhelming, and she was no longer in control; she was a stranger in her own body watching from the outside as her instincts took over. It was a raw force, something to be reckoned with, but no one could win against her. The more she felt the fire in her hands, the more her common sense began to panic.

“Don’t touch her,” her voice had dropped several octaves, “Or you’re gonna regret it.”

When the man looked at her this time, all color faded from his skin and he stopped, frozen in place and eyes widened at the sight of her glowing frame.

Eliza turned to the crying woman on the ground. “Did he touch you?”

She shook her head. “N-no. Not yet,” she said.

“Then go! Run as fast as you can. Save yourself.”

She didn’t move a muscle. Her body remained stiff and pressed against the brick wall.

“Didn’t you hear what I said?” Eliza raised her voice. “Run, now!”

Her heels clicked against the floor as she ran out of the alley, crying and sobbing uncontrollably, and undoubtedly calling the police on her way.

The man’s instincts kicked in as soon as they were alone. He feared she might kill him if he didn't resort to more serious measures. Lifting his fists, he attempted to attack her.

Tilting her head, she sighed. “Don’t,” she said, but he did it anyway.

He went after her. She tried hard to control herself, using her fists instead of the monster inside of her, instead of being who she truly was, but as soon as he hit her, she exploded. Her hands came up and he flew back, hitting the stone wall at the other end of the alley.

Her hands continued glowing at her sides. He lifted his split skull. Tears glistened in his eyes.

“Please,” he begged.

“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” she said. “Not being in control. Telling someone no but the other person won’t listen. Almost humiliating, wouldn’t you say? Offensive, abusive, stripping you of your honor?”

“Please, I didn’t mean to- I thought she wanted this, I’m sorry!”

“You thought she wanted this? She said no! Does no mean nothing to you?”

“No, but-”

“What is it with you thinking you can take whatever the fuck you want without consequences?”

“It won’t happen again, I promise! Please…”

“Rest assured that I do this only because your behavior has been so inviting. You provoked me. I had no choice. Your behavior was misleading. You tempted me. I thought you wanted this with the way you kept flapping your hands around. That is not my fault.”

“No, God, don’t kill me, please! I didn’t mean to- I won’t do it again, I promise, just please… please, spare me!”

“Oh, I won’t kill you.” Her grin was empty, as was her voice. “Death is too kind for people like you,” she said. “You deserve to suffer. Not even hell would be kind enough for you, where you surely will be going. But no, not yet. Not before I haven’t made you see God over and over again while you’re screaming for my mercy the same way you’ve made that woman scream for mercy.”

He reached into his jeans. Eliza picked up on the blade in his hand too late. He threw it with a loud yelp, landing it in her upper arm. She hissed, reaching for the handle that stuck out of her skin. During that time, he used the moment of confusion to scramble to his feet and run. He had attacked her, threatened her, and made her bleed. She saw red. Literally and figuratively, she saw red.

She tore the blade from her skin. It squished, burn, and squirted some blood, but she didn’t care. She was angry, she was feral and she couldn’t help the way her mind reacted before she could grasp control over the ruthless animal inside of her.

Her powers pulled him back, soaring through the air, across the alley, and back into the wall.

She slapped a hand in front of her mouth. She only wanted to restrain him. In her head, keeping him in front of her would make it easier to keep him present until the police would come and arrest him. Instead, though, she had to watch in horror as the smoke in her hands carried him straight through the wall, tearing the stones apart, ripping a hole into the alley, and burying him underneath the bricks.

Her hands stopped glowing. She stared helplessly at the destruction she caused. She couldn’t hear, see or feel the man. Had she killed him? She wasn’t sure. His feet poked out of the smoke and his toes seemed to twitch, but she wasn’t sure, and the shock kept her tied to the ground. Her hands, now seemingly normal, were capable of such awful things. There was a reason she hadn’t used them for anything other than changing Matt’s perception. She should have kept it this way, and used her fists instead - what had she done?

The soft call of her name behind her broke through the alarm sounds in her head. “Eliza,” he said softly. A familiar voice.

Eliza pressed her back against the nearest wall, hands in front of her. “Don’t come near me,” she panted. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

She shied away when he tried to touch her again. He stopped halfway, his hand at level with her head, just lingering in the air. She stared at his fingers, his glove removed, and he offered his hand for her to take at her pace.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

She looked up through teary eyes, meeting his brown ones. The red mask lay next to him, his hair disheveled and sweaty as he smiled. He could tell what she had done, but he didn’t shy away. Still, the energy was hot in her veins and she was sure that if she felt threatened again, her hands would do the same to him. She wasn’t in control, the stone was. Her heart raced in her ear and she shivered, slouching against the bricks.

“Tell me, is he dead?” she asked.

He tilted his head in the man’s direction. “No,” he told her.

“Is he… dying?”

“No, he’s just got a few broken bones. Nothing serious or life-threatening. You didn’t kill him. He’s okay, but most importantly, you’re okay.”

His hand came closer. She winced, “No! Don’t- please, you’re just gonna get hurt. I can’t… I’m not in control, Matt. If you touch me, I might do the same thing to you. I can’t stop it.”

“Yes, you can.” Matt knelt before her, hand still extended and waiting for her to take the lifelines. “Look at me! Take my hand, let me prove to you that this is real. You’re not gonna hurt me, I just need you to calm down. I’m not mad,” he said, still smiling, “I’m here for you, okay? I’m here, I’ve got you.”

Her shaky hand slowly found its way into his. She took it, squeezed it, and held it tightly. His skin was warm and clammy, just like hers. His pulse beat strong and steady under the skin. The world didn’t end when she touched him. They were both still alive and it was real, no matter what her mind kept telling her.

“You feel me?” he asked.

She nodded, “Yes.”

“Good girl. There you go, see? Nothing happened. Told you, you’ve got this.”

He smiled, squeezing her hand again. Three times meant I love you. Another three translated to I have you. She wasn’t alone, not anymore, and there was no reason to be afraid anymore.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?”

Eliza turned to look at the broken-down wall and the man underneath, but then Matt was suddenly there and pulled her head to the side, forcing her eyes back on him. The destruction site was fully covered by his broad frame.

“Look at me,” he reminded her, “are you okay?”

She nodded, the cut on her arm beginning to thud with the fading adrenaline. “I think so.” Her teeth ground and she hissed, “Ah!” Perhaps she wasn’t entirely okay.

His nostrils flared. He sniffed. Smelling the blood, he crawled forward. He took off the other glove as well and pressed both of his hands against the cut on her arm. He felt the skin and the bone shift. The flesh squished where he pushed down as the wound secreted more blood right into his hands. The scent of the copper was something all too familiar to him, and it was scary. Every time he smelled her blood now, he got flashbacks that brought the feeling of her lifeless weight in his arms right back to the front of his consciousness. If he tried hard enough, he could still feel the remains of her blood on his suit, and if he took a good whiff, he could smell it. No bleach in the world could remove the ghastly picture from his mind, and whenever she was hurt, he was only reminded once again of how badly things could turn out and how he had almost lost her not so long ago because of one reckless decision.

A soft breeze ran through his hair, pushing the sweaty strands back and to the side. He blinked the tears away, banning the memories and forcing them back where they came from. “You need stitches,” he stated. His jaw clenched, she could see it. He applied more pressure, an attempt to stop the bleeding. “Probably not that many, but you’re still losing a lot of blood, so…”

“I’m okay,” she reassured him. Physically, she was, at least.

“I know, just… if we wait any longer, it might get worse. And we need to get out of here before the cops come and see you like this.”

“You mean what I did.”

He still sat right in her line of vision, but she could imagine the sight. She imagined what it looked like behind him and what the police might think. She would become a criminal again, and this time she would let them arrest her. She deserved it. The Department Of Damage Control would come as soon as they saw her, but perhaps it was for the best.

Matt shook his head, tilting her chin up with his finger. Some of the blood got on her chin and he wiped it away, silently apologizing. “I won’t let them take you,” he said, “No matter what happens, they won’t touch you.”

“If you could see what I did,” she prompted.

“I still wouldn’t care. This has nothing to do with my blindness or how you think my love for you might make it worse. No, you did nothing wrong. You saved someone’s life and defended yourself. No one has the right to prosecute you for being yourself. They don’t know you, not like I do, not like your friends do.”

He brushed her hair back, followed by a careful tilt of his head in the direction of the Main Street. Her wide, teary eyes were on him, regret and shame dancing in them as if it was a competition. He pressed his lips to her forehead, lingering on the cold skin for a little longer than he planned, feeling her heart jump and the clench of her fingers around the fabric of his suit. She was scared, not just ashamed. But she wasn’t scared of him or the police, she was scared of herself, which was a far worse fate to suffer because she knew she wasn’t the only one feeling that way. She had seen it twice that night, and she could bear it no more.

“C’mon,” said Matt. “Let’s get you home. I’ll stitch you up, get you some dinner, warm you up… Can you stand?”

One of his arms wrapped around her waist already.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice monotone, reserved and possibly even dead inside.

He sighed softly, helping her limp body back to her feet. As soon as they stood, she wrapped her arms around his waist and placed her head against his chest. He hugged her tight, ignoring how her blood got onto his suit again. She was afraid if she didn’t hug him and he didn’t hug her back, she might fall apart.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

Eliza shivered against him. “I’m not sure if I’m okay.”

“I know, but that’s okay too.”

“How long have you been here?” she asked, every word coming with a labored breath in tow.

“Not long, five minutes, maybe,” he answered. “Heard the screams, smelled you and had to see if you’re alright.”

“Why didn’t you… step in?”

“Plain and simple, I trust you.”

“Oh.”

Maybe he had underestimated the situation. He applied more pressure to the wound. She hissed in response. “C’mon.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Let’s get you home now.”

Walking through the roof access to his apartment, Eliza realized how tired she truly was. Her feet dragged over the wood of the stairs in a state of exhaustion. Her knees buckled. “Woah, easy,” Matt caught her just in time. He slipped an arm under her thighs and chose to carry her instead.

He set her down on the couch, silently searching for the first-aid kit and a towel. Feeling her skin shift again, he gnawed on the inside of his cheek.

While he stitched her up, she stared straight at the wall. Her head was empty, her body hulled in a fog. She couldn’t pinpoint what she was feeling. The shock had subsided. Instead, she felt nothing, not even guilt. The numbness hurt to the point she wanted nothing more than to feel the pain of the needle in her skin, but Matt was too good at what he did. Other than a few pinches, she felt nothing.

“He could have seriously hurt you,” he murmured as he threaded the needle through her parted skin. “This could have gone much worse. I can’t…” He swallowed. “I can’t lose you again.”

She didn’t answer.

“You need to be more careful. Short-sleeves aren’t fighting material.”

“I don’t have a suit anymore,” her answer came flat.

“I know.”

“I’m not an Avenger anymore.”

“I know that, too. But you can still help people,” he said, “That isn’t determined by-”

“I snapped,” Eliza blurted without trying to. The voice that had once been void of emotions started to display the true weight of the words on her soul.

Matt opened his mouth, but he wasn’t sure what to say.

“He attacked me and I just… snapped,” she said. “I hurt him because I wanted to. I hurt him because I was angry. I did this. If he had died, his blood would have been on my hands tonight.”

He shook his head, patting down the wound with a cotton swab. His eyes remained soft, though he swallowed harder than before. “I’m sure you knew what you were doing,” he said.

“I didn’t. I wasn’t in control. Or, I was. I was in control of my anger and I just let it happen because I felt like… I felt so… I’m scared, Matt.” She doubted ‘scared’ cut it close, but it was the word that made the most sense. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why I can’t control my powers when it comes down to it, when I know I should but I don’t. I thought I could control the anger, I thought I could control the extent of what I’m capable of, but when I feel threatened or angry and am convinced that the other person deserves punishment, I… I need to balance it out. God, what is wrong with me? I’m not a fucking judge or executioner! I’m a person.”

“Hey, no. Nothing’s wrong with you. You didn’t kill him, you only knocked him down pretty good. You did nothing worse than I would have. This wasn’t… this wasn’t a vile or evil act, baby. Far from it. You saved a helpless woman from suffering a terrible fate tonight.”

Her lip quivered and a tear slipped down her cheek. The dam opened a crack, at first, but it soon broke in two when he spoke again.

“Hey,” Matt cooed, finishing the last stitch to take her head into his hands and hug her tightly to his chest. “Don’t cry. Nothing happened.”

“No, but I’m a monster!”

“Stop it. You’re not a monster.” He used his free hand to run it through her hair. “You didn’t hurt him any more than he deserved. Deep down, you knew that he would never get what he deserved if he went through the system, so you allowed yourself to let go a little more. You let the anger take over because he deserved to be punished, but you didn’t kill him. You wouldn’t cross that line, not again. Deep down, you know what you’re doing. I know you do. You’re far from being a monster, sweetheart. Monsters act only to be vile. They hurt good people. The man you fought was a monster. You're not.”

She shook her head, trying to escape his grasp. Her attempts were to no avail. He held her tightly until she stopped struggling and fell into his arms completely.

“You saved that woman’s life. You saved her from getting raped by a man that would have done anything to get away with it, including stabbing her to death. You are a hero. You saw someone who needed help and you decided to jump in. That’s selfless, you understand? It’s not evil, it’s a good thing. It’s something only someone with a good heart can do.”

“I wasn’t in control,” she whimpered. “Not really. My anger was, I… I can’t…”

“I know, and that’s okay. We’ll find a way. I don’t know much about your powers, but we’ll find a way to make this easier for you. We’ll find a way to help you gain some sense of control. You have friends who can help you, you have me, and we have Fogwells to train. I just… you’re not a monster. You’re still a fighter, a hero, and a good person.” He tilted her head up, brushing her wet cheeks. “Don’t think that way about yourself. You’re so good, baby. So good.”

“No…” she sobbed again. “No, you’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong,” he said. “Trust me, I love you so much, and nothing you do could change that. Even in the eyes of God, you are good because you chose to save someone’s life while putting your own in danger. It’s what saviors do. You are a savior.”

“I didn’t mean to do what I did. I didn’t mean to hurt him like that. I didn’t care what happened to him, which is the scary part, not my powers themselves. I don’t know what’s happening to me, Matt, and it’s scary. I thought I had it all under control,” said Eliza, “but I don’t, and I don’t understand why because it worked when I made you see. And it worked beyond that. I haven’t exploded ever since… I haven’t exploded like that ever since I reconciled with my father before everything went to shit. I just… I’m so tired and my arm hurts and it scares me that I don’t even feel fucking guilty for any of this. I shouldn’t act out. It’s dangerous. My powers are dangerous, especially in the hands of someone who doesn’t know what she’s dealing with. I know everything and nothing at all. I… I…” she hiccuped and the breath got knocked out of her lungs. The oxygen started to burn away the skin in her chest and she wheezed again, her body riddled with aftershocks.

Matt shook his head, pressed a gauze to the wound and she took it while he searched for a bandage in the kit. “One step at a time,” he said. “You’re not a monster, Eliza, and you’re not dangerous. In the hands of anyone else, your powers would be catastrophic, but you? You’re a good person, and I know you can control it. The stone is in your blood, your body knows what to do. You’re just too much in your head, you have been ever since you came back, and that’s okay. You need to get used to this again, I know you can because I know you, baby, and no one’s as strong and capable as you are.”

She sniffled. “How do you know?”

He wrapped the bandage around her bicep and secured it with tape. “I have a feeling. We’ll find a way to learn more about your powers somehow,” he said, “but not now. Not today. Today was a lot and you need a break.”

“I need to be in control of my mind to be in control of what’s inside of me, but I don’t… the anger is so strong, Matthew, and it makes everything so much more powerful.” Her fingers tingled. “Even now, I feel lightheaded.” The color traveled from her palms to her fingertips. She sighed, knowing her eyes had changed color again.

Matt felt the air shift and the familiar jolt of electricity his senses sent rolling through his body whenever she used her powers around him traveled from his neck down his spine.

He reached for her hand, but she shied away. “Don’t,” she said, her voice tired instead of a warning, and she got up. Her feet pointed toward the bedroom door.

Her mind reeled with unspoken thoughts that sounded less like English words and more like gibberish. Her heart was racing in time with her breathing and the more she thought about it, the harder it got to keep her hands where they were. She wanted to run to him, but she caught sight of her reflection in the milky glass and she knew that if she touched him, she would hurt him. At least her head kept telling her so, and so she chose to be cautious. She chose to keep him safe, the one promise she would always keep, no matter how far gone down the rabbit hole she was. There was no one, not even Happy or her therapist that could understand what possessed her, the power she held in her hands, and the cravings it caused within her. She didn’t crave drugs, she craved the world, she craved things she couldn’t quite understand, and it brought her back to all those weeks ago when she had been just as clueless. The state of helplessness was exhausting.

He made a pained sound in the back of his throat when she ushered away and back into her cocoon.

“I thought we were over this,” he said.

Eliza crossed her arms. “I don’t want to hurt you. Why don’t you get that?” she said.

“You won’t hurt me, sweetheart.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You’re not as out of control as you think you are.”

“You don’t know that!” The billboard outside of the apartment complex flickered. It reflected red instead of the purple it had been before. She stared at her hand and then at the plain red picture that was projected onto the big screen. The change in static made Matt cringe, the sound sharp and piercing through his eardrum.

She sighed. Part of her did it on purpose, the other part wasn’t sure what came over her. She tried to fight the urge to push him away, but it was getting harder by the minute.

He got up. “Eliza…” he reached for her, but she wasn’t where he expected her to be.

“I just need to be alone right now,” she whispered. tears clouded both her vision and her voice. “Don’t come too close to me or I might hurt you, too.”

She burst through the bedroom door and closed it behind her, just in time before the tears burst out of her and she landed sobbing on the mattress. He could hear everything and it shattered his heart to pieces. He pressed his palm against the glass, then his forehead, and he listened as she ran out of breath again and again as she cried into their shared pillow.

“Please, sweetheart,” he said. “Don’t shut me out again. Don’t close the door.”

He could have easily opened the door, but she didn’t want him to. She locked herself away for a reason, and he had to grant her the privacy she required. At least for an acceptable amount of time, but not too long as if to agree with her that it was okay to push him away. He didn’t want her to, and she promised she wouldn’t, not again. All he could do at this point was hope that his words would do anything.

She shuddered and disappeared underneath the covers, hiding from herself like a scared little girl.

When she didn’t answer, he sighed. “Alright, I’m just gonna stay here,” he said and slid down the stone wall next to the bedroom door. “You let me know when you’re ready to talk.”

“Go away, Matt,” he heard her cry from the other side.

Matt chuckled. “Not a chance, baby. I’m not leaving you. You know why?”

She gave a disapproving grunt.

“You don’t scare me. You’re just scared, and that’s okay. I’m scared too, all the damn time, but we can fix this. I know we can. You just have to let me in. Tell me what’s bothering you other than this stupid fight so I can try to understand why you’re so sad.”

He was met with a heavy silence. Her breathing had slowed, but the occasional sob still wrecked her body and she shivered heavily every time it did.

“I read the letter,” Eliza admitted eventually. “Tony’s letter, I mean.”

“And?” he asked.

“Tony’s an asshole.” She chuckled, a tear slipping down her cheek, and she added, “But I was the bigger asshole.”

“Do you want to forgive him?”

“I know I want to make things right, but I don’t know how. I don’t know a lot of things,” she said.

“You don’t have to know everything. That’s not how life works.”

“How did I end up like this then?”

“Like what?”

“Broken and screwed up.”

“We’re all a little screwed up,” he said.

“I’m a lot screwed up,” she said.

“Yeah, me too.”

Another tear slid down her cheek. “The storm inside of me is real. Are you sure I’m not just a monster locked in a cage of her own making?”

“Yeah,” his palm landed on the milky glass again, “I’m sure. I know you, I know what the woman I love is capable of, and evil is not something I would use to describe you. So you’re not a monster, you’re a hero, and it doesn’t matter what anyone else says because I see you better than anyone else can, Eliza. You keep telling me I’m good… well, you’re better. So much better. You’re good at heart and that cancels out everything else.”

“But how can you be so sure?”

“Let’s just say, there has to be a reason you were born with such great power. God… no, the universe chose you to survive the exposure for a reason. I’m sure of that. You just need to learn how to live with yourself before you can control this storm you’re talking about. That’s a big burden to carry, and you’ve just started to figure it all out, so just grant yourself some more time.”

The mattress shifted. Her bare feet patted against the floor and stopped before the door. Instead of opening it though, she slid down the glass and pressed her back against his, only a small barrier between them now. She pressed her palm where his lay, sighing at the way his shadow visibly tensed.

Eliza ground her teeth. “Tony gave me the key to my father’s apartment. The one I, uh, found after I wrote you guys that letter,” she told him. “He said there are things my father wanted me to find. In case of his death, he had this fail-safe that sent Tony all that was necessary, and he did, so he forwarded it to me. I just… he’s trying to make up for it, but I can’t even think about that. I’m angrier at my father right now for twisting Tony’s views, but I’m also… I want to know what he left me. I need to know. But I’m so angry. I’m so fucking angry, Matt. All I could think about tonight… fuck! I was weak tonight.”

“I should have never let you leave alone,” he said.

“Don’t do that. Don’t blame yourself. Sister Maggie caught me before I could make a serious mistake.”

“Yeah, but it was my job to be there for you and I wasn’t.” He wished he could touch her. “I will be forever grateful to Sister Maggie, but that doesn’t change the fact that I left you alone.”

“It was my choice, Matt. Stop putting all the blame on yourself. I can’t… I can’t do this right now. So please, just… don’t.”

She leaned her head back against the glass and he did the same, whispering the softest apology into the dark of the night.

Goosebumps erupted on her skin. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want to be herself anymore. “Matt,” she murmured.

He tilted his head in the direction of the door. “Yes, love?”

“Can you stay with me?”

He sighed. “Of course, I can.”

“I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts.”

Because her thoughts were far more terrifying than her powers ever could be.

“You don’t have to be,” he said.

She sighed, reaching out a hand to rest on the glass again, turning so she could lean against the door completely, and she listened to his breathing and heartbeat faintly on the other side. It was the most she could do. He was so close yet so far away. She wished she could ignore the looming voice in her head and just be normal, but she was afraid of what might happen if she ignored her most primal nature and told the stone to shut up. The last thing she wanted was for Matt to suffer because of her.

“Matt, do you think,” she began again, “that everyone’s in danger as long as I’m alive?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “God, no,” he said.

“You think I was born to be a monster?”

“No.” He couldn’t even put pressure behind his words. He was so in pain from hearing her ask these questions, not sure what to do, what to say or think. He just sat there, hoping she took his words to heart.

Eliza traced the condensation of her breath on the glass. “Then why did I end up with this… this curse?” she said. “Because it doesn’t seem fair that I get a frozen and broken heart while my mother died and everyone else… Everyone else is normal.”

He sighed, taking the same position she had, his temple pressed against the door and his hand to the glass. “You said it yourself that the infinity stones were creations of the universe, right?”

“Yes.”

“So maybe you survived because one day, something big might come for us, something a man in an iron suit or a Hulk can’t fight and only Someone as powerful as one of these stones can fight that threat. Maybe you are the universe’s fail safe. You’re a protector, not a destroyer. You survived for a reason, and that reason may come one day. When it does, you’ll know. Until then, you have to believe me that God and the universe have their reasons to be giving only certain people special abilities. Our accidents both had deeper meanings, I think,” he said, “and we’re both on the right path to figuring that out, but especially you, my love. I’m convinced that you will do big things one day, and the world will thank you.”

She was quiet. She didn’t even breathe for a moment. He listened in. A soft sob broke from her chest, then another salty tear rolled down her cheek. She exhaled, clenching her fist and holding tighter onto the glass door. “Okay,” she said, her voice the softest tune of a pretend-whisper. “Thank you.”

He smiled. Her breathing slowed, as did her heartbeat and her sobs seemed to subside with every passing second that she listened to him on the other side.

“You think you can sleep now?” he asked. He knew he wouldn’t be able to do much more tonight.

“I think so, yeah. But not on the bed, I want to stay on the floor. It’s harder here. The mattress feels too soft.”

“That’s okay, I just want you to rest. Can you do that for yourself?”

Eliza nodded. “And Matthew?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you,” she said.

Matt chuckled, tracing his fingers over where he could feel her warmth through the bedroom door. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

Even in her current state, she would never go to sleep without telling him how she felt, and her love for him was ever-present and never-ending.

She stirred back to life when she felt a hand on her thigh, rubbing gentle circles over the bare skin to coax her out of unconsciousness. Eliza scrunched her nose, shifting on the bed. Once again, he had carried her in the middle of the night. Her back was more than grateful.

As she blinked the sleep out of her eyes and against the sun streaming in through the window, she realized that she was no longer wearing her skirt but Matt’s Columbia shirt, freshly washed and dried, and a pair of shorts he got from her collection.

Her hands reached above her head as she stretched her aching muscles. The cut on her arm screamed. With a hiss, she brought the limbs back down, pressing a hand to the bandage.

Matt sat at her feet where they were pulled up to her chest, a blanket draped over her. He took such good care of her, always, it made her so incredibly thankful for having him. No one else would have done it for her. He got her changed, put a blanket over her, let her sleep in until he finished with coffee and breakfast, and only then did he wake her with gentle touches.

He smiled, though his head was tilted in her direction and his nostrils wider than usual, suggesting he was taking a whiff of whatever was in the air. Copper, blood.

“You opened the cut on your arm,” he stated.

She looked down at her now blood-soaked fingers from where the bandage had turned red. The pain turned thudding and burning. She hissed, “Fuck!”

“I was gonna say good morning, but that didn’t age so well.” He chuckled softly, his voice still gruff from waking up and the lack of caffeine in his system. He put the coffee mug with her favorite beverage down and reached for the first-aid kit that was still laid next to the table. “Sit up for me,” he said. “Let me check your stitches.”

He removed the bloody bandage, placing his palm flat next to the cut. The skin shifted, but it was only in one place. She had healed enough to be removing the stitches, so that was what he did. She winced when he pulled the first one out. He gave an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry, I wish you could have had time to properly wake up, but the damage is pretty extensive.”

“Do I need new stitches?” she asked, her voice even groggier than his.

He shook his head. “Butterfly bandage will suffice if you don’t make any fast movements and tear the cut open again. You gotta be more careful when you’re hurt.”

“Yeah, I tend to forget I’m not a vampire who doesn’t bleed.”

Matt dabbed the wound down with some disinfectant, placing the butterfly bandage on top, then returned with a cold towel for her to press against it to help with the swelling he could feel around the bone.

“That’s ‘cause vampires are dead,” he said with a cheeky grin, “Can’t bleed when your heart isn’t beating.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“I’m just saying. You’re not dead, and I prefer it that way. Now,” he replaced the bloody tissues in his hand with the coffee mug and handed it to her, “I’ve made you some coffee. Take it as a peace offering for making you pop your stitches.”

She chuckled. “Thank you, very considerate.”

“Breakfast’s on the table. When you’re ready to get up, we can eat.”

Her forehead dropped forward against his. He caught her by the back of her neck, holding her close to him. They breathed into each other’s mouths, connecting on a much deeper level than was visible on the outside.

“I’m sorry about last night,” said Eliza.

He shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, I- I have no idea what came over me, but I promised not to push you away again and last night, I did, so I’m sorry about that.”

“You needed privacy,” he said, “I’m the last person who’d deny you some time for yourself.”

“It wasn’t just privacy, Matt, I was scared and I still am and I… God, I don’t even know anymore.”

He captured her lips with his, telling her, “Don’t talk, it’s okay,” before he deepened the kiss and knocked all air out of her lungs.

Happily, she sighed against his lips, leaning further into him. Their kisses soon grew heated and Eliza swung her leg over his lap. One of his arms wrapped around her hips to get close to him faster. She rolled her hips, chest against chest, and her hand began to stroke over the white shirt that adorned his torso, feeling the muscles underneath his shoulders and his pecks.

He broke the kiss to ask, “What do you want?” Breathless and his cock already straining against his sweatpants.

Her chuckle sounded dark in his mouth. “What does it look like?” she said. Their lips clashed again, as did their teeth and tongues. They fought for dominance, but Matt was bound to win the battle.

“I don’t know.”

She snorted, grinding her hips down on him again, his cock brushing against her hot core that hid beneath layers of fabric. He growled.

“Then what does it feel like?”

He bit down on her bottom lip, pulling it toward him as she leaned back slightly to look into his hazel eyes. She had no choice but to lean down and kiss him again, hard and needy, returning to the sloppy movements of her hips against his. His fingers were sure to leave bruises on her hip from how hard he held onto her, but she didn’t mind. If anything, she wanted him to hold her even tighter and leave as many reminders of him as humanly possible. She would gladly carry him around with her anywhere she went, not just his cum but the imprints of his hands and mouth as well. The beard burn from the night before was still heavy on her thighs, and it would stay there, she decided, even long after she healed because he would do it again. She needed that part of him more than she needed to breathe. With him, her body was alive either way, and her mind finally found peace.

When his kisses traveled to her neck, Matt finally moved from grabbing her hips to the hem of her shirt. “Off,” he instructed.

She lifted her arms and allowed him to pull them over her head. The Columbia shirt hit the floor, the cold air hitting her nipples. She gasped which quickly turned into a moan at the stimulation. He wrapped his lips around one of them, sucking at her breast as if his life depended on it, and his hand went to squeeze the other one, massaging and pulling at the neglected nipple every once in a while. His tongue managed to find spots on her breast that drove her crazy. Her panties were soaked at this point and she kept rutting against his clothed cock like a maniac, the kisses, and licks to her nipples almost too much. She clenched around nothing. He pinched the sensitive nub between his fingers and she cried out, holding onto his hair.

He knew exactly where to use his mouth for the lord’s work. She was the queen laid upon the altar and he worshipped at her feet, doing what his religion told him to do with divine beings - worship them. There was only one God every time they laid together, and it wasn’t the catholic one he prayed to, the one far up above; no, she was his Goddess in moments like these and he did what any catholic good boy would do. He gave her the attention she deserved and did anything she wanted. He couldn’t help himself. Making her feel good seemed like his version of forgiveness, and he would indulge in that kind of penance for as long as he still could.

The scent of her arousal was thick in the air. He chuckled at the uptick of her breath, the small moans, and her hands clawing at his shoulder.

“Fucking- God, Matthew,” she panted into his ear this time and he shivered, cock twitching and hitting her core again with every grind of her pelvis.

It felt so good, she stared into the abyss and the sirens sang for her to jump. She was high off the feelings; his lips around her nipple, his hand squeezing her breast, and the almost non-existent friction on her cunt other than a soft breeze of air - her legs shook as she held onto what she couldn’t quite believe was a real orgasm.

“Sweetie,” he purred against her skin, wet from his saliva.

She gasped when he squeezed the other nipple again, turning it at an interesting angle that made her whimper once again. “Matthew,” she said.

“Don’t think too much about it, just feel good. Do it for me, I’ve got you.”

With a particularly skilled twist of his tongue and with that, her nipple, she dug her nails into his shirt and cried out his name in the most delicious, orgasmic tone. He held her by the waist as she jumped off the precipice, letting him give her another push before her muscles locked up and she was a moaning mess in his arms. Riding out her orgasm against nothing but his lips pressing gentle kisses to the skin around her nipples now, paying close attention to giving her breasts some much-needed love, she slowly stepped out of the fog.

“Oh,” Eliza sighed.

Matt grinned cheekily, smacking the tit he didn’t suck on before he straightened back up to kiss her. “You didn’t know that was possible, huh?” he said.

She shook her head.

He forced the shorts down her legs. The panties she wore ripped with one tug from his side. She gasped again when his hand collided with her bare ass cheeks. She was completely naked now while he was still dressed, his hair disheveled, lips swollen, and his smirk was never the less enticing.

He pressed his lips to her ear, whispering sweetly, “Can I make you feel good one more time?”

“Yes,” she answered.

He slipped his middle finger into her hole. She shivered, her walls wet enough to welcome him with open arms. He thrust the digit in once and buried it to the hilt inside of her.

“That’s my girl. Always so wet and needy. Was that enough for you? You think you can take my cock now or do you wanna cum on my fingers?”

Her hips bucked, trying to get his finger to move against the spot she could feel him resting against.

She whimpered into his ear, “Want you.”

“You have me. Tell me, what exactly do you want?”

“Your- fuck!” He curled his finger.

Matt chuckled into her ear. “What was that?” he said.

“Not your fingers,” she managed to choke out, though she kept grinding on his hand.

“Alright then.” His finger slipped out of her cunt and shoved it into her mouth. She tasted her arousal off his skin, gagging when he pushed down on her tongue to get deeper down her throat. “Don’t choke,” he mused, “Suck.”

She breathed through her nose. His skin began to taste bitter, but she didn’t care. She sucked on the digit until tears were streaming down her throat, and he decided he had teased her enough. He pulled out and her eyes rolled back, lips glistening with saliva and what was left of her juices.

“Beautiful,” Matt whispered before forcing her down by the hair and kissing her.

Their tongues met, teeth digging into bottom lips. There was no telling where one began and the other ended. They became a tangled mess of lips, spit, and limbs. Her hips ground against his clothed rection and he met her feverish movements, matching the desperation in her touch and the way her body ached for him.

“Matt, please…” Eliza could only whine when he nibbled at her jaw.

“What do you need?”

“I need you to fuck me,” she said.

“Oh, yeah?”

He pulled his pants down enough to release his aching cock. She licked her lips. His leaking tip rested against his stomach and she ground down on him, sliding along his shaft to coat him in her wetness. He stilled her movements with his hand on her hip. “Let me do the work,” he told her.

Matt rolled her onto her back, connecting their lips in a heated kiss. He lined himself up with her entrance, hooking her leg around his waist, and thrust forward. He buried himself to the hilt inside of her, not a single inch left. She gasped, back arching into him, and his lips slipped from her mouth to her neck.

He stilled, waiting for her approval, and she squeezed his biceps in reassurance. He took that as a sign to start moving.

Her hands wandered with shallow gasps. Her nails raked down his clothed back and under his shirt, pulling it up and off by the hem. The white shirt hit the floor and she dove in without wasting a second to taste his skin everywhere she could.

He rocked his hips back and forth in a steady rhythm, meeting all the spots he knew drove her crazy in the best way to pull soft whines and moans from her lips that were attached to his shoulders and neck, licking a long stripe over his pulse point.

She pulled at the strands of his hair, forcing him down to meet her desperate tongue. His fingers left crescent moon indentations in the Skin of her thigh as he pulled it further up, angling his thrusts so deep, she cried out and followed the wave of stars into the oblivion of what she suspected to be heaven. She had been there a couple of times before, always in his arms, and every time she found herself so blissed out, she missed nothing but his touch.

There was no rush as he kept pounding into her at a gentle, reserved pace. He made love to her in a way Matt never thought he was capable of. Their lips stayed attached and their hands began to wander over the other’s body, touching every inch they would find with their fingers. He memorized her skin, every stretch mark, scar, and crevice and she did the same, tracing her fingers over his scars and the faint hairs on his chest that had grown significantly but not yet long enough for her liking.

His kisses traveled from her mouth to her face, licking and biting over her skin. She tasted sweet as always, slightly salty with sweat and tears, and the scent of his sheets lingered on her, transforming into a distinctive scent that he stored away in his brain. He kissed her forehead, cradling her head into the crook of his neck as he picked up his thrusts, the tension in his stomach too much to bear, and with how hard her cunt was squeezing around the sensitive veins of his cock as he kept hitting her most pleasurable spot, he could tell she was just as close.

She moaned into his shoulder, biting down on the skin, and he reached between their bodies to catch her clit. He started with slow circles, wanting to savor this as long as possible. Slow and steady wins the race, and the movement of his fingers felt far more intense like this, with him being so gentle and attentive as he took care of her body as if she were holy. He worshipped her, put her pleasure first, and made sure to drag every last sound out of her mouth before he even thought about himself.

Eliza licked her lips, forcing his concentrated face in height with her own. His eyes were hooded and slightly closed, but she didn’t care. She kissed him, nibbling at his bottom lip, and traced the sweaty brown hair out of his beautiful face. His thrusts faltered and he drove in at a different angle, massaging her g-spot and her inner walls perfectly with the tip of his cock, and she felt him twitch again. He was holding off, trying not to be the first to cum, but then she started meeting his thrusts and moaning directly into his ear and he had to grab the headboard for support. His self-control started lacking.

“Matthew,” she breathed his name, lips moving from his to his ear.

He grabbed her face forcefully and kissed her instead. The tone of her voice made the tingling in his stomach and the intense pressure in his balls even worse. She was so warm and tight, wet and clenching around him like a vice that held him as a form of protection from the world, and the more he thrust, the faster his orgasm seemed to approach. He had it right there. He held his long-awaited release and it was starting to grow painful. She needed more and he had to give it to her. If he came now, he wouldn’t forgive himself. But damn her, he thought, because they had sex so many times, she knew his signs and his body and he couldn’t keep the truth from her. He couldn’t deny that his strength wasn’t as great as before and that he would disappoint her; she knew.

She locked her legs around his hips, clawed her nails into his ass, and clenched around him. She was telling him silently that it was okay. Her body invited him to give her his all, but he tried not to let the selfish voice in his head tell him to give in.

She moaned his name again, shivering under his touch and the soft caress of his lips on hers. His finger still drummed against her clit, but he had lost momentum and pressure.

Eliza wrapped her hand around his throat, squeezing slightly and forcing him deeper. “It’s okay,” she said.

“No,” Matt shook his head.

“Yes.” Her heel dug into his lower back, giving him no space to escape. “Let go,” her voice reverberated in his ear. “Now.”

He tried not to, but she left him no choice. He couldn’t have pulled out even if he wanted to. His hips stuttered and he buried his head in the crook of her neck to muffle the whine that slipped his lips when he came. His cum spurted out of him and painted her walls with his seed. The fog overtook him. The endorphins and pure pleasure of his orgasm rendered him useless. He held tightly onto her, needing his lifeline to keep him grounded or he would have fallen. It was intense. It was amazing but it was intense, and his legs gave out.

He clawed at the sheets. The orgasmic haze cleared, hyper-aware of his cum that started to trickle out of her and down his shaft, and the hot sensation made him hiss. Even the silk of the sheets seemed to burn into his skin.

“I’m sorry,” he panted and he pulled out, flopping down on the mattress next to her and turning on her side.

The shame was a cruel monster inside his head, and it paired with the guilt that tainted his bloodstream. His muscles still twitched and he started to burn even brighter, his vision turning into an inferno and the sweat on his skin turning into acid. He wasn’t sure where it came from, but suddenly, his throat tensed up, he couldn’t swallow, and then the tears started to make their descent down his cheeks. The wave crashed in without warning, the shame wrapping a noose around his neck and the guilt scraping the skin of his bones. He felt every last cut of the knife, and the contractions of his soul as he kept whispering the same apology over and over again, “I’m so sorry.”

He was sure he cursed God. He was sure he prayed and thanked him at the same time that he couldn’t see, but he was sure he could smell and hear how disappointed she was. She was hot, her skin sticky and her heart beat fast and loud. She hated him, he was sure of that. He put himself first without asking. He went over her head and put her pleasure second, and then he turned away and cried like a coward. His head hated him and so he started to loathe himself. He promised to be good - he hadn’t been good. He wasn’t good.

“I’m so sorry, forgive me,” he cried, his arms curled under his head and the rest of his body curled into a tight ball. He was shivering, but not from the orgasm.

The silky fabric of the blanket found its way over his body. It stuck to the sweat on his skin, but he pulled it further up nonetheless.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

Eliza wasn’t sure what happened, but as he cried and apologized as if he had just done something terrible, she could only watch in horror as Matt folded in on himself. He was riddled with catholic guilt, she knew that, but she never thought it would extend this far. She had never seen him like this before and it was scary as much as it was heartbreaking - she wasn’t scared of him, she was scared of what his mind might have told him to make him feel this way. He recoiled from her because he was ashamed. He refused her touch because he was ashamed, and he apologized because he was ashamed. He hadn’t done anything. She wasn’t mad, far from it. He was too caught up in his mind to listen to her signs.

She reached out slowly, not sure if he wanted her to touch him. “Hey, no,” she asked, “What are you apologizing for?”

He flinched when she touched him.

“You don’t have to…” he swallowed. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have… God, I’m so sorry.”

When he didn’t pull away, she wrapped her arms around his back fully and hugged him. “Matthew, it’s okay. You didn’t do anything.”

“No, I-”

“Matt, please, nothing happened. Don’t…”

His body was wrecked by another set of sobs. She whimpered.

“Don’t cry, please. There is no reason for you to be ashamed.”

“I used you,” he said.

“No, you didn’t.”

“I used you for my own pleasure and I didn’t even have the guts to finish it. I have every reason to be ashamed. I…”

She hugged him tighter. At first, he fought, but then he took her hands and melted into her touch further, not sure if he liked the fire she lit within him or hated it, but he knew that he needed her touch because it kept him alive when he felt like dying. He needed to hold onto something or he was sure he would slip away. She cooed into his ear, stroking her hands over where she had his forearms trapped, and nuzzled her nose against his cheek.

“I don’t need to cum to enjoy sex,” she murmured into his ear. “I enjoyed myself anyway. Matt, I…”

Eliza pursed her lips, gently rolling the man onto his back. He hid behind his hands, wiping at the tears that just kept coming. She smoothed her hands over his tense biceps. “Sometimes, sex doesn’t work the way we plan it to, and that’s okay. I don’t think I have to tell you that.”

He hiccuped.

“Have you never…” Her eyebrows furrowed when he said nothing. “You’ve never allowed yourself to cum first?” she said.

Matt shook his head weakly. His cheeks flushed, the embarrassment clouding his mind and his senses, and he tried to pull away from her again. She forced him to look at her, holding his hands close to her chest. She smiled, suddenly relieved, and the softest of laughs passed her lips.

“Are you crying because you feel guilty that I didn’t cum?”

“Let no one seek his own good, but the good of his neighbor,” he recited.

“Yes, but… Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”

He scoffed.

“Point is,” she said, forcing his face in her direction again, “There is no reason for you to feel ashamed or expect me to resent you just because you couldn’t hold your orgasm. I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me, you didn’t do anything. In fact, I encouraged you to let go, Matt. I didn’t want you to hurt yourself just because your good catholic brain thinks he needs to serve everyone but himself. I don’t always need to cum first or at all, baby. I would mind if you didn’t care,” she told him, “but you’re literally crying right now, which means a lot to me that you care this badly, but please stop beating yourself up over something so… so normal. You do not have to please everyone all the time, Matthew. It’s okay. Shit happens. Sex goes wrong, and plans change, but that’s okay. And, I mean, I wouldn’t call this gone wrong. I liked it.”

His eyes fluttered close at the gentle touch on his cheek. The tears stopped falling, but he was still shaking.

“Hey,” she kissed one of the freckles on his chest, “Can you talk to me, at least? So I know you’re okay.”

Matt sniffled. “I’m sorry,” he said.

She scolded, “Stop apologizing.”

“No, I’m sorry you didn’t cum, and I’m sorry for pulling away like that.”

“It’s okay,” Eliza shushed him. “Just don’t scare me like that again, okay?”

“I just feel so guilty…” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat before he added, “I love you so much. I really don’t deserve you.”

“That’s not true. You have no reason to feel guilty.”

She laid down on his chest and he wrapped his arms around her in an instant when he felt her close to him.

“I love you too,” she said. “More than anything.”

The pulse between her legs drummed against his thigh. He stiffened. His hand slid lower, over her shoulder blades and ass cheeks, before he slipped it under the sheets to find her neglected cunt, still wet and sticky from his cum. She smelled like him.

“Matt,” said Eliza, catching his hand in the act. This was not what she intended. “I told you, it’s okay that I didn’t…”

“You were so close,” he stated. “Let me finish what I started.”

“It’s okay, I’m not even that horny any- fuck!”

He dragged a finger through the wetness between her folds, his cum and her arousal coating his tips, then rubbed it over her clit and slipped it right into her tight, abused hole.

Matt kissed her temple, his fingers beginning their expert thrusts. “Let me take care of you,” he said.

“I suppose I could…”

His thumb joined her clit as the other two digits scissored her, stretched her out, and pushed against her g-spot whenever he curled them. Her hips lazily matched his strokes. The position seemed uncomfortable, especially for him, but he reignited the desire in her stomach and since he stopped crying and offered like the gentleman he was… all Eliza knew was that she needed to cum. Now that he was already on it, she didn’t want him to stop. She could have easily lived without an orgasm before his fingers slipped back inside of her - now she had no choice but to comply with the magic of his hands as she kept grinding her pelvis against his fingers.

“Keep rocking your hips like that, love. There you go. Make yourself cum. You deserve it.”

His cum moved even deeper inside of her with every thrust. Her hips grew more desperate, she started moving faster and so did his thumb, applying more pressure to her clit. He listened to the blood rushing under her skin and her heartbeat picking up the pace again. Her nails clawed into his skin in need of leverage and she moaned, sucking one of his nipples into her mouth. His free hand moved to her hair, giving her the comfort she needed to let herself go completely.

Her lower stomach moved along his cock and he was getting more than hard again with every sweet sound that reached his ears. He grunted when she applied more pressure, the tip of his cock as sensitive as ever when it got caught against the blanket.

She stopped grinding on his fingers. “Wait,” she exhaled.

He stopped. “What? You okay?”

“Yeah, fine, just…” She sat up, sliding the covers off his body. “Do you think you can, uh, go again?” she asked with a glimpse at his hard-on.

Matt swallowed.

“I just want to feel you inside of me. Please, Matthew.”

His fingers slipped from her cunt. He took them into his mouth, tasting her and himself on the tips of his fingers. He sighed. Her hands rested on his thighs, wide eyes looking up at him expectantly. Her walls pulsated, desperate to feel his cock inside of her again, desperate to cum with him filling her up again.

Hesitantly, he nodded. He would hold back this time, no matter how much it hurt. He would let her cum again and again, as many times as she wanted before he would even think about letting himself cum.

He angled his hands on her hips to help her move up and over his pelvis, lining his cock up with her entrance. She threw her head back when she finally sank down on him. She didn’t need to adjust, she only lowered herself down on him until he was all the way inside and instantly started to rock back and forth with his cock deep inside of her.

He pushed his head into the pillow. His thumb moved back to her clit and he continued the gentle abuse until her thighs shook around his hips and her movements grew sloppy. Her palm rested flat against his scarred chest, the other holding onto the wrist that was between her legs, stimulating her in all the right ways and places.

She could grasp the orgasm again, it was right there, right where she needed him most, and he started to thrust into her from below. He hit her g-spot.

“Fuck, Matthew, I-”

Eliza couldn’t possibly finish her sentence. He caught her by the neck, her thighs locking around his hips and her cunt squeezing his cock tightly. She came, crying softly, and his fingers tightened around her pulse point. She shook, quivering, and her clit pulsated from where his thumb still rubbed against it. Her voice got lost on her, she could only whimper and whine. The thrust he met hers with eased up, her orgasm dragging on for minutes before the wave finally started to subside and retreat back into the ocean of pleasure that left her lightheaded and happy, all tension having fallen off her shoulders, and the minutes before only a distant blur in her head.

She sighed happily.

“Was that penance enough?” he asked. The flush on his cheeks had traveled to his chest again, the sight of his something to be photographed and hung up on the wall as an artistic masterpiece.

She chuckled, stroking his abs. “Partly,” she said.

“What do you mean partly?”

“Well,” she lifted her hips as much as possible, “someone’s still hard.” His cock slipped out of her and slapped against his stomach, emphasizing her point.

“Sweetheart, I already…” Matt swallowed thickly when she sat back down on him, his tip bumping her clit, and they both jolted at the overstimulation. “You don’t have to do this,” he said, but she had already started using the wetness between them to her advantage.

She slid back and forth on his cock, granting herself the sweetest friction of his shaft against her clit and her puffy folds. The swollen bundle of nerves twitched with every stroke and it added to the knot that was quick to build again.

“Give me one more and we’re even,” she purred sweetly, picking up the pace and his disapproving grunt turned into a strangled moan. His pre-cum added to the cum trickling out of her and all of her arousal, causing an obscene cacophony of sounds to fill the room that already smelled of sex, tears, and catholic guilt.

“You know I can deal without a second o-oh, fuck!”

“Two for two. It’s only fair. Now,” she grabbed his hand and forced it back around her throat, “choke me with those beautifully thick fingers of yours while I fuck myself on your cock.”

He growled, tightening his fist so tightly around her throat, she gurgled and saw stars. Matt didn’t even hesitate this time.

“Whore,” he choked out, her hips growing sloppy and her cunt clenching around the air.

She chuckled, nails digging into the area around his nipples as she tugged at them to make him moan. “Yours,” she said.

“Mine,” he said.

“God, I love you so much.”

She shivered.

“My good girl.”

Her body locked up and she came long before he did, his cock disappearing between her folds momentarily as she spasmed over him, coating not only his length but his stomach in her wetness.

His fingers squeezed again, knocking the air out of her lungs. In an instant, he had pulled her back down on him, his cock buried deep in her cunt and he thrust upward two more times before his stomach and balls tensed up and he came hard inside of her, his cum coating her walls for the second time and making her feel so incredibly full, she moaned. She clenched to keep him inside, to feel him mark her forever and keep the reminder of him deep inside of her.

His grip loosened and she toppled over, head landing on his chest, and she panted heavily into his chest. She felt like a used, wet towel covered in cum and sweat and some of his tears. He held her, not quite trusting himself just yet either. His entire body shook with the aftershocks of his orgasm and hers combined, chest heaving and aligning with hers.

After a moment of regaining power over their minds and limbs, Eliza lifted her head, cheekily staring into his eyes. “Guess we fixed that,” she said.

He took a deep breath before he laughed, pulling out of her and rolling them over until she was on her back and he could slot himself between her thighs. She yelped. His grin reached from one to the other ear, diving down to capture her lips in a loving, heated kiss that had her sighing into his mouth.

“I’m sorry for earlier,” he said. “I overreacted.”

As he traced her hair out of her face, she returned the gesture with another kiss. “Don’t overthink it,” she said. “As I said, shit happens. Sex doesn’t always work flawlessly.”

“I know, but… I don’t know, no one’s ever been this attentive to my needs before and I just… I can’t believe that you’re still here with me.”

“You better start believing then, counselor, because you’re not getting rid of me anytime soon.”

“I’m starting to think you’re right.”

“About damn time.”

Their fingers intertwined over her head and their lips found back home again.

The clock kept ticking, but for them, time had long stopped being real. They enjoyed each other’s company with lazy kisses under the warm blankets, the sun shining through the closed curtains and turning the brown in his eyes into the color of honey. His lip glistened with her saliva and hers were swollen from the many times he had buried his teeth in her bottom lip. His hand rested on her sternum, fingers resting just above her aorta where he felt her pulse steadily thrumming against the skin from below. She was alive, he was alive, and they were together, right where they belonged. There was no reason to worry. There was no reason to feel ashamed. She didn’t run or curse him, she stayed. If he had to keep his hand around her neck forever to remind him of that, he would gladly do it and she would let him.

After a prolonged shower, the couple feasted on the pancakes that had long gone cold. With a glimpse at the clock, Eliza realized they spent more than three hours tangled in bed together, and he had already let her sleep in which put the time somewhere around noon when they finally had breakfast and coffee.

It was a domestic sight; Matt did the dishes and cleaned the kitchen while she sat back and watched him move around in everyday clothes and a content smile on his face. The happiness bloomed in her chest like a young flower, still fragile and not at her full size, but it was growing and blooming with each passing sunray. He was her sun and her love was growing more and more every day, as did her happiness. The field of positive emotions was expanding and she couldn’t wait to tell someone, anyone, about how happy he made her. Eliza was sure she would combust. Even during their darkest times, they held each other’s hands, and she would never pull away from him again.

The harsh ringtone of her phone tore her out of her dreamy haze. She flinched, reaching for the device at the edge of the table. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she muttered under her breath when she read the caller ID.

Matt frowned. “What?” he asked, his lips pursed in the most adorable, most curious pout she had seen in a while.

Eliza shook her head. “It’s just… Happy,” she said.

“And? Aren’t you waiting for a call from him?”

“I’m waiting for Tony to call me back, not his forehead of security.”

“Forehead of-”

“Doesn’t matter. I gotta take this.”

“Oh,” he hummed, “Okay.”

Closing the door behind her, she swiped left. She answered without wasting a second on pleasantries, “About fucking time you picked up your phone to call me back,” she said.

“I’m sorry, I was busy,” Happy retorted. Behind him, several voices kept screaming at each other. “Stark Industries doesn’t sleep, not even on weekends, you know that.”

“I’m well aware, but I called you because it was urgent and you what, didn’t even listen to my fifty voicemails until now?”

“Listen, Liz, I didn’t even think you’d still read the letter. I tried to talk to Tony, but he won’t let anyone into his office, as usual. I talked to Pepper, but he hasn’t talked to her either. I tried his cell, but he won’t answer. I don’t think it’s personal. He’s shutting us out, too.”

“Did you tell him, at least?”

“Of course, I did. I told him you wanted to talk, but I got nothing. No reaction, no sign of life, nothing. You know, maybe you should come over and talk to him in person.”

“Talk to him in-” She bit down on her fist, trying to calm the quiver in her voice. “I left him ten voicemails. If he doesn’t answer them, that’s his problem. I made a step toward him. I told him I’m open to negotiation. If he’s not willing to talk to me, he can take his letter and shove it up his fucking ass! Tell him that. Maybe that will wake him up.”

“You know he hates confrontation,” he said.

“By God, that is not my problem.”

Happy sighed. “Did you go to your father’s apartment yet? You said he left you the key in the letter, right?”

“I don’t know if I will,” she said, her answer truthful and vulnerable but at the same time incredibly angry. “I remember what he wrote in his letter, but I don’t know many things right now, so it’d be nice of Tony to get his shit together and talk to me like a normal person. He started this. He has to find the guts to talk to me. I won’t take another step before he doesn’t crawl out from under this depressive stone he’s crawled himself under. I respect he’s struggling, but he wasn’t there when I was struggling, so I will not cave. I did my part, now it’s his turn.”

“Look, I’m trying, okay? But I can’t promise anything. Hell, I don’t even know what he’s thinking. I can’t help you with this, Liz. You and Tony need to solve this yourself. I can’t be the messenger,” he said. “I’ve got enough on my plate with the work Pepper has left me with since she doesn’t have you to help her anymore, and I just… I’m drowning here, so I need you to reconcile with Tony and get back here.”

Eliza let out a high-pitched laugh. “No,” she answered plainly. “I have a job, I have a life and I won’t be roped back into being a servant. The Avengers are over and I’m done. I’m willing to talk to Tony but only if he shows that he still cares about what he wrote in that letter. That is my condition. If you won’t… if you don’t want to play the messenger, that’s fine,” she said, “I still love you like family, Happy. This is not your weight to carry, you’re right. But if Tony doesn’t answer me, I guess you will have to deal with the fact that I won’t return. That’s my condition, that’s the deal. Tony comes to me or I won’t come back at all. There is no negotiating a peace if neither parties are willing to make a truce.”

He challenged her with, “Are you?”

She nodded, her jaw set in stone. “I am, but is Tony? That’s the real question. If I don’t get an answer, that only means he doesn’t care about reconciling, or he’s changed his mind about me, I don’t know. I don’t care. I just want to move on. Tell him that. Let him know where I stand one last time, and that’s it. If he still doesn’t act, that’s his problem and I won’t bother you with this anymore. But I won’t come around for someone who doesn’t care about putting effort into getting our relationship back on track. I need him to take the bait first before I take that road. He doesn’t deserve the cab money I’d spend to get to you, not yet.”

The line went eerily quiet before he gave a weary sigh. “Alright, I’ll tell him. One last time,” he emphasized, “and then it’s on the two of you to figure this out.”

“Thank you!”

“I only do this because I love you.”

“Thanks, Happy, appreciate it.”

“And because you’re both very dear to me, but that’s it.”

“I get it, thank you.”

“Yeah.”

“And Happy?”

“What?”

“I’m, uh, planning to have a funeral for my father. I don’t… You’ve never met him but maybe, if I end up deciding that I want this… maybe you want to come? Would that- would that be something you can do?”

“Oh,” he stuttered. “I… yes, of course. If that- if you want this, sure. Tell me the time and place and I’ll be there.”

Eliza nodded slowly, her eyes trailing out onto the street below the apartment and the Billboard that stood before it. “I haven’t my mind up yet,” she said. “I might not do it, I don’t know. I guess I’d have to go to his apartment first, see what he left me, but I can’t… if Tony and I can’t even get our shit together after he wrote that letter and I realized I made mistakes too, what use would it have to try and make amends with what Anton left me? He’s the reason all of this shit went down in the first place. He forced Tony to make an impossible decision. And I still…” Her fist hit the window quietly. “I still love him like a daughter would love a father who was there. It’s… it’s twisted. So please, Happy, tell Tony to call me back, at least. I need to know where we stand,” she said. “And I’ll tell you the rest over a cup of coffee, okay?”

He seemed to scramble something on the other end. Paper rustled and he pulled out a pen. “How about tomorrow at…” he flipped a page, “Ten?”

She chuckled. “Can’t. Uh, Matt is making me go to Sunday Mass with him.”

“You’re going to church?”

“Yeah, mostly because I need to talk funeral arrangements with the father because you know, my dad was Russian catholic, so a catholic funeral is the closest he can get here, and Matt said Clinton Church actually does these really nice services… I don’t know, I’m coming with him to find answers and some guidance on what to do, I guess,” she trailed off.

It sounded as if he nodded on the other end. “You want me to come?” he asked.

“What?” Eliza sucked her bottom lip into her mouth. “No, I…” she shook her head. “Would you?”

The question was useless. Even though Happy was far from being a catholic or a church-goer, he would do it for her. He would pack his stuff and come to church with her. She didn’t need to ask to know the answer he would give.

“Where is it?”

“Clinton Church,” she told him.

“I’ll be there.”

“Wait, maybe I should ask Matt-”

“Oh, no, he offered,” said Happy.

“Wait, what?”

“Not this Sunday mass, of course, but he asked me if I wanted to join him for some church gatherings someday. When we were texting, I mean.”

Her eyes almost bulged out of her head. “You texted?”

“We do every day, yeah.”

“How did I not know this?” She looked over at the closed bedroom door.

“Well, he said he wants to get to know me because you guys are pretty serious and he wants to make sure you have a good support system.”

“He… he said that?”

The glaze of unshed tears wiped over her eyes. Her heart grew even heavier with the pure love that weighed like a brick of gold. She was so thankful, it almost hurt how in love she was with him. She was sure she picked the right one.

Matt was the kind of man who would care about her always, and make sure she wasn’t alone when she needed someone. She was the first and last thought on his mind all day, every day, and he used every chance he got to take care of her with all he had, even if he had to wear himself thin for it. He dedicated his life and his soul to the people he loved, and now she was the one thing he cherished most in life and she got everything he had to give, no matter how scared or insecure he was. He held on even when she couldn’t. He was afraid she might leave him again, afraid of getting hurt, afraid of losing her - he held on because he loved her and he showed her that in all the ways he could, in all the ways he only knew how. She didn’t deserve even half of what he did for her.

“He’s the one,” she murmured.

The tap in the other room turned on and she hoped the water concealed her words enough for him to not pick them up.

“I’m gonna marry him, Happy,” Eliza blurted out, her head turned far away from the door.

He gasped. “Wow, okay,” he said.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t… but I needed to tell someone. Because if he comes to you to ask for your blessing - and he will, I mean, that man is highly catholic and you’re the closest thing I have to a father right now - I want you to say yes because him? I’m not letting him go again, no matter what it takes. Even if I have to propose to him myself.”

She knew she couldn’t give him the kind of traditional family his religion saw fit, but she wanted to give him everything else she could. She wanted to be his family and she wanted to grow old with him. And if she was already so sure about that, she was certain she wouldn’t change her mind again. The feeling was overwhelming and it needed to be said out loud, and the more she admitted it to herself, the bigger the flower of happiness in her chest grew. it overshadowed all the pain and the fear that once consumed her. With Matt, she had hope, and she was sure she could one day be happy and careless just with him. Him and her, for all eternity, because he was the only man she truly needed.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Happy said suddenly. She had missed about half of their conversation.

She blinked, tearing her eyes away from the streets of New York. “Sure, yeah, tomorrow,” she said.

The line clicked and she was left alone in the buzz of love and her thoughts putting a blanket of comfort over her.

Matt, who seemed laser-focused on cleaning the cupboard with his spice collection, jumped a little when he felt her arms around his waist. “Hey there,” he chuckled softly, her face buried between his shoulder blades.

Eliza breathed him in. She could not be waivered in her decision - she loved him. He was home. “Thank you,” she said.

“For what?” he asked.

“Everything.”

He got off his tiptoes to turn around, holding her in his arms now. “Everything?”

“I love you.” She leaned up to kiss him. “So much.”

He chuckled. “And I love you so much, too.”

“Did you hear us talking on the phone?”

“No,” it wasn’t even a lie, “Why?”

“No reason.”

“Is there something I need to know?”

“Not yet,” she told him.

“What’s that mean?”

“Nothing. I’m just glad you’re here with me.”

He kissed her again, then engulfed her in a bone-crushing hug that took all of the air out of her lungs.

Eventually, he loosened his grip to feel his wrist, checking for his watch. When he couldn’t find it, he sighed. “What time is it?” Matt asked.

She kissed his empty wrist, eyes switching to the oven clock. It came with the apartment, most likely, but didn’t benefit him in any way. “Six,” she answered.

He could tell by the change in air density and the fading tourist sounds that were replaced by music and limousines driving the streets of Hell’s Kitchen toward Manhattan that it was already dark outside.

“Is it dark?” he checked to clarify.

“Almost,” she said. “Why?”

“Get dressed,” he then told her. “We’re leaving at seven.”

“What’s going on? Why are we leaving?”

“I have a surprise for you.” His lip twitched. “Just do as you’re told, sweetheart. You’re gonna love it, I promise.”

“What kind of clothes?”

“I don’t know, clothes.”

“Matt.”

“Honestly, you can wear a trash bag. I don’t care.”

Eliza huffed, but she distanced herself from him against all reservations and returned to the bedroom. She pulled out a pair of jeans and a shirt - the most basic outfit choice she could think of. In her mind, they were going for a walk or breaking into a museum to have a date night. She didn’t think much of it. Matt loved to take risks and he loved spontaneous arrangements even more. She wondered if he would take her to have some street food and ice cream, perhaps return to the Lavender Haze park that she had grown to love after their shared dance. Maybe he would take her dancing. Or he would do something unexpected and they would end up in trouble. She wasn’t sure and she hated he refused to tell her.

When she got out of the bedroom, dressed and ready, and she caught sight of him, she settled on the latter suspicion.

He was wearing his Daredevil suit, minus the cowl, standing at the foot of the couch waiting for her. “Hold up,” she said. her heart dropped, her face paled and her fingers started to itch. She had been angry and sweating before during the phone call, but… she didn’t like this. Whatever idea he had, it was a bad one.

“Do I need to wear fighting equipment, is that- what are we doing?” Eliza gave him a questioning and suspicious look. “You know I can’t… it’s dangerous for me to be out there, Matt. You can’t just take me out after sunset all ominous with a secret surprise in your Daredvil suit, not after what happened yesterday. Dark alleys are no great surprises. Being a vigilante is not my thing.”

Matt grabbed her shoulders to bring her face-to-face with him again. He smashed their lips together to shut her up, her heartbeat loud and clear and about twice its usual speed. “Relax,” he said, “We’re not doing that.”

“Then why are you wearing that fucking suit?”

Even her body was shaking.

“Shh,” he stroked his thumb over her cheek, “The surprise is waiting somewhere I can’t be Matt Murdock, but that’s it. We’re not jumping head-first into reckless danger. I’m not trying to push you to use your powers or anything like that. I would never do that, baby.”

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, bottom lip between her teeth.

What if she hurt someone again?

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

She couldn’t say no to that, so she answered truthfully, as always, “Of course, I do,” she said.

“Then let me take you there and you’ll see that it’s only half bad. Hm?” He tugged at her lip. “Can you do that for me, Angel?”

Eliza shivered. “I don’t…” she looked into his sparkling eyes, the small smirk on his lips, and the trust she had for him exceeded her expectations. “Okay,” she said, caving. “I can do that.”

“Good ‘cause we have to leave now if we don’t want to be late.” He pecked her lips. “Let’s do this, huh? Let me surprise you.”

“I hate surprises.”

“You’re gonna have a love-hate relationship with this one, trust me.”

Eliza pouted after him as he jogged up the stairs to the roof exit. “That somehow makes it worse.”

He chuckled, opening the door and waiting for her to follow in his footsteps. “Are you coming?” he said.

She clutched the necklace he gifted her.

“Sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” she grumbled, “I’m coming.”

“That’s my girl.”

He didn’t miss the death glare she shot him as she passed by him.

“Don’t be so pessimistic,” Matt slapped her ass, “It’s not a good look on you.”

“Stop slapping my ass,” she retorted.

Clicking his tongue, he chuckled, “Never.”

He took her down dark roads over dark rooftops and alleyways until they reached a particularly dark dead end. It seemed like a driveway in an alley somewhere in Hell’s Kitchen, the space leading up to the door of a garage.

Matt placed a finger against his lips when she opened her mouth. “What are we doing here?” she asked anyway.

“Trust me,” he mouthed back. He reached for the lock on the door.

“Wait, are we breaking in?”

“Eliza.”

“That’s illegal.”

But he didn’t break the lock, thank God, he only took it and banged it against the metal. It was a rhythm of two thuds, a small pause, and then another three. She stared at her boyfriend, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen in all of his glory with the moonlight falling on his red eyes, and then at the metal door that separated them from whatever place they found themselves.

She grabbed his arm when they received no answer, whispering into his ear. “We should go. Whatever we’re doing here, this can wait until the morning, can’t it?”

After everything, she was a bit queasy about cops. She didn’t want to be a suspect again. That didn’t end so well the last time.

“It’s gonna be fine,” he assured her. “Just… wait. Sometimes it takes a moment.”

Matt knocked again, this time with his clothed fist. The same rhythm filled the quiet night. For a few seconds, the world went deathly quiet. Then, finally, the lock twisted and turned and it clicked. His lip twitched into a satisfied, knowing smirk. He opened the door, holding it open behind him so Eliza could step into the dimly lit garage after him.

She kept her head low, her heartbeat steady but with goosebumps on her skin. She wasn’t sure what to think of this place if she was supposed to trust it or be weary. Matt seemed more than comfortable, but that didn’t mean anything. The person this garage belonged to could turn out to be her worst enemy for all she knew, he wouldn’t even have to know.

“I was wondering when you’d come,” the male voice somewhere on the other end of the room behind wooden palettes and mannequins said. “Thanks to the measurements you gave me, I got finished much faster than usual. It’s not perfect, but you said it was urgent so I focused more on the practical components than the aesthetic ones. I hope that’s okay. Although I’ve been wondering why you’d need such a small suit.” The man chuckled, his voice now resembling the sound of a child’s laughter.

He stepped out of the darkness of the other half of his garage, bald-headed with a mustache and wearing a blue flannel atop a v-neck and a pair of jeans. His boots scratched against the floor. He held a towel in his hand, another over his shoulder. When he saw Matt in the comfort of the dark, he didn’t shy away, he only smiled.

“You didn’t lose weight,” he stated. “Oh, but the holes in your suit…” The stranger approached him and Eliza’s fists clenched at her sides, ready to attack him even though he screamed anything but dangerous in the way he carried himself, and he spoke like he couldn’t consciously hurt a fly. He looked strong, but only physically, his mind seemed to be a little more twisted. “What did you do, get shot at?”

“Melvin,” Matt interrupted him instead.

“Yes?”

“I want you to meet someone,” he said.

He stepped aside to reveal her. She frowned, looking between him and who she suspected was Melvin. He looked confused at first, then his eyes widened and he stepped back.

“Woah, man, I told you…” he reached for the screwdriver on his workbench. “No new people. You promised. For me, for- for Betsy. You were supposed to be my friend!”

Eliza instantly lifted her arms at the smallest hint of fear in his voice and demeanor. “No,” she said, “No, I’m not a bad guy. Far from it. I’m just… Honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing here, but I’m not here to hurt you. He didn’t bring me here to hurt you. Melvin, was it?” she asked.

He nodded.

“You seem like a good guy, Melvin. Good intuition. Tell me, am I lying?”

Melvin eyed her carefully, his grip on the screwdriver loosening, as did Matt’s shoulders. He looked at the Daredevil, his lips pursed. “It’s for her?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Matt.

“Is she like you? A superhero?”

“Do you watch the news?”

“No, Betsy won’t let me.”

“That’s… understandable. Doesn’t matter. You’ve heard about the Avengers though, right?”

Melvin nodded, surer this time.

“Well, she’s one of them, and she’s my friend. So in some ways, she is like me, but in most ways, she is better. Now, I didn’t come here to hurt you. We have a deal, you’re right. I asked you to do this for her.”

“You’re an Avenger?” he questioned, eyeing her up and down again. His shoulders straightened and he stepped closer. “Which one?”

“Well, I’m not the Hulk,” Eliza said. She shrugged.

He looked at her more closely, then his lip cracked up and he laughed. He laughed loudly, eyes crinkling at the corners, and only then did Matt ease up completely and she sighed, somehow more relieved that he didn’t run away screaming than anything else.

“I’m Eliza,” she told him.

“My name’s Melvin. Potter,” he said.

“Nice meeting you.”

“I make his suits.”

“You-” she turned to Matt with raised eyebrows. “That is oddly interesting,” she said.

“D saved me and Betsy from Mister Fisk. I owe him my life.”

Matt chuckled awkwardly, waving his hand. “It’s not… it doesn’t matter,” he shrugged it off. “It was nothing. Fisk deserved to be locked away.”

“According to Melvin, you are a hero.”

“That’s because he is. Daredevil is a hero,” said Melvin. He scrambled back to reach for a box he put on the shelf that separated both halves of the room. It was a brown wooden box with a bow.

Eliza eyed the bow curiously.

“So I help Daredevil out,” he continued, “and he helps me out. Today though, I’ve helped him by making this.”

Matt removed his glove and stopped him, a bare hand on the box. “Thanks, Melvin,” he said.

“You want me to give it to her now?”

Eliza stepped into the light of the lamp that hung from the ceiling and shone its light on the workbench. “Give me what?” she asked.

The two men shared a look. He toyed with the bow.

“When you got hurt last night, I thought… you said you didn’t have a suit and that you need to be in control of yourself so you can control your powers. I know that doesn’t even begin to cut it close,” he said, “but I asked Melvin to make something for you so you can try again. I know how much you need the fight, almost more than I do.”

Matt motioned for Melvin to open the lid. He did.

“What did you do?” Eliza murmured.

The bow slipped off. She peeked into the dark inside. It was the same red fabric Matt had incorporated into his suit, though hers was a mix between black, scarlet, maroon and crimson, all sorted in different spots. The chest piece looked similar to a pair of feathery wings, the sleeves long with cut-outs on her elbow and her upper arms and there was a belt around the waist attached to something resembling a skirt, but it was open in the front and attached to a pair of leather pants. The cleavage was barely visible, a few leather bands attached to a piece around the collarbones and throat. They were sewn in a triangular formation, and in the middle of the amalgamation of fabric with the small slits in-between, there set a red crystal. It wasn’t real, or she figured it wasn’t, but it was formed like a rhombus or a diamond and the color fit perfectly. And when she touched it, it glowed.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered. Her breath got stolen away. “D… Melvin… I- I don’t know how… Jesus fucking Christ.”

“It’s not perfect because I had to rush, but if you look at it from the outside,” Melvin told her and lifted the suit out of its confines, “It actually looks pretty good. The crimson parts can divert a bullet, the black might deflect a knife, and the other ones… well, they’re actually just fillers for decoration. So maybe try not to get shot or stabbed there.”

“The crystal,” she pointed out.

“Oh, that’s just for decoration, but it lights up under touch, so if you ever need a flashlight in the dark…” he pressed his finger down on it. The softest red glow erupted from the stone, and the glass that enveloped it glittered slightly. “One of Betsy’s necklaces gave me the idea.” he looked so adorable. He was proud of himself, there was no doubt about it, and she couldn’t blame him.

The suit was beautiful, with careful craftsmanship and he put thought behind it. It was nothing like the Avengers suit Tony made for her or the one she had to wear at SHIELD. This one was personalized, especially with the angel wings and the red. Matt must have told him all about her because the suit was hers. It spelled Red Angel. The one thing people would expect upon hearing her name laid right in her hands, and she could wear it any time. She could become a hero again, one that would be known as more than just an Avenger. It was a fever dream and Matt had made it true with just one phone call the other night. He did that for her. For her, for Eliza, not just for anyone. First the necklace, now the suit - he was planning to make her cry.

She blinked the tears away. “It’s beautiful,” her voice bordered on a whisper.

“Would you like to put it on?” Melvin asked. “I need to see if I got the measurements right.”

“I don’t doubt he got them just right,” she told him with a look at Matt. The man blushed the same color as his suit. “But yes, I’d like to put it on, if you don’t mind.”

he opened his arms toward a secluded space. “You can get changed over there if you want.”

She grabbed the suit with shaky hands, excitement and anxiety blurring together. “Thanks.”

“Meanwhile, I gotta fix the holes in your man’s suit. It’s a wonder he hasn’t been killed yet, walking around like that…”

As she kept shedding out of her clothes behind the wooden palettes, she chuckled. “I thought the same thing,” she declared.

“It’s just a few scrapes,” Matt jumped to his own defense.

Melvin went in with a needle and thread, adding some more of the fabric he found. “You should have brought this to me sooner,” he said.

“I didn’t have the time, and I’m here now, so…”

“Almost too late.”

By the time Eliza had finished squeezing into the tight fabric, Melvin had patched up most of the significant holes in the Daredevil suit. Upon his offer to do more than just add a few stitches, Matt declined. He heard her accelerated heartbeat and her steps approaching from behind the curtain.

Judging from Melvin’s stunned silence, she must have looked good. She brushed past him and stood in front of the mirror that stood against the dirty wall. “Zip me up?” she said to Matt.

His hands went to work. They would have without being asked to, but he didn’t want to come off desperate. He found the zipper and pulled it up, feeling the fabric in the process. It was similar to his but not the same. He touched the waistline and the way the entire suit fit her body perfectly, every last measurement in the right place. The top hugged her breasts perfectly and offered support even without a bra and the makeshift skirt that he told him to add gave her the same individuality she lacked in the other suits. This was her now, no one else’s, and like this, she couldn’t be confused with anyone else.

He touched the gem in the middle of her sternum. “Perfect,” he purred into her ear. “You look perfect.”

Tears sprung into her eyes. She hadn’t quite comprehended the sight of herself in such a perfectly tailored fight suit yet. Tony did his best with her old one, but no one had ever personalized it the way Melvin did before. Especially the wings that adorned the front made it look so much more epic. It wasn’t just a suit, this was like a second skin made for her specifically, and she had Matt to thank for that. Without his senses, he wouldn’t have been able to guess her measurements right. His attention to detail paid off in the end, especially around the zones that were hard to fit. She had never felt more comfortable in a piece of clothing.

“Wow, this is… thank you,” she breathed. “Thank you, Matt, really. I don’t know what else to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I told you, you only deserve the best. And maybe this proves to you that you are meant to be a hero.”

“Maybe you’re right…”

“I’ve got something else for you,” Melvin cut in from behind. He held two knives in his hands, possibly even daggers. “These are made to fit into the holsters on your thighs,” he explained. “Here.” He demonstrated by sliding the blade into the tiny pockets on the sides of her pants. “I heard you might need those.”

Knowing Matt probably told him all about her obsession with knives, she chuckled. “It’s beautiful,” said Eliza, admiring the sight of the handles sticking out of her thighs and how they blended with the rest of the suit. “Thank you, Melvin.”

He nodded. “I also have matching gloves, if you’d be interested.”

“I thought you said you had limited time.”

“There’s always time for gloves.”

He pulled them from the wooden box and handed them to her. She slid the leather gloves on, relishing the fact that even they fit perfectly, neither too large nor too small. She moved her fingers, testing the flexibility. She could easily fight like that, use all of her skills, and still be protected.

“Thank you, really,” she said again, eyeing her new outfit in the mirror. She felt comfortable in her skin, finally, like nothing could disturb her. She was invincible, almost. “I couldn’t have asked for a better gift.”

“Your boyfriend had the idea, I just executed it.”

She smiled up at Matt who seemed to try and bite back a smirk. “I know. I guess he just really loves me.”

“I guess he does,” said Matt.

“You’re crazy.”

He stood behind her again, stroking her shoulders and the new sensation of the fabric on her skin. “Someone had to give you faith again, even if it’s just in yourself. Tell me,” he said, “did I succeed?”

Eliza placed the palm of his hand over her heart. “You did,” she said, and her heartbeat was sure to underline the truth of the statement.

His teeth grazed her ear. “You know, I believe there are a few robbers in the bank down the street. I can hear them.”

She smirked, his red eyes dangerously staring into hers through the mirror. She matched his demeanor, taking his hand and intertwining their fingers at her side. “That would be unfortunate if we didn’t stop them, don’t you think?”

“Indeed it would,” he hummed. “Would you like to test the suit’s flexibility now, my Angel?”

Pulling him with her toward the door, she paid no mind to Melvin’s confused figure in their way. And she said to him, “I thought you’d never ask, my Devil.” As if she had never doubted herself in the first place, ever.

And just like that, the Red Angel was reborn and Daredevil, the man without fear, sustained her existence with a love he had never fathomed possible to conjure up for anyone but his city. The two became a team to be reckoned with, and with trouble on the horizon like every dark and twisted night in Hell’s Kitchen, New York needed their personal bodyguards more than ever.

New York City, the city that never sleeps, and a duo of vigilantes that no criminal wanted to mess with - that no one knew even existed until it was too late, and Hell’s Kitchen could fall asleep in peace (or a resemblance of that, at least) once more.

[colpograzia]

aligning jigen w/ his moralities & beliefs. or: if i had a penny for everytime jigen gets depicted with religion-related imagery/analogies/metaphors

been wanting to assemble some of my thoughts on jigen’s sense of morality & justice for a while since to me that is a major part of why i find him so interesting as a character? so here’s a small lore™ dump for which i gathered up information from various different episodes and movies (which also means plenty of ‘spoilers’ if there is such a thing in the lupin world).

of course some of this is vaguely more of a headcanon write-up than outright stated in the show but i think for the most part it’s pretty close to the main material and even if you should disagree maybe it’ll still be interesting : )

I.                     jigen and religion.

there are several episodes that touch on this. in part 2 episode 34 the gang faces off a bunch of vampires and eventually comes across a local myth that the grave of jesus christ is located in a small village nearby. jigen immediately corrects that this is impossible as, according to the bible, jesus was buried in golgotha. when fujiko tells him afterwards that lupin has been turned into a vampire, he is shown to already know and performs the sign of the cross, expressing his pity along with an ‘amen’. (this is also one of the episodes where it’s shown that he is quite knowledgeable when it comes to folklore, being familiar with how to best fight vampires and believing in fortune telling – but his superstitiousness might be a whole separate post to make …)

in a later episode (part 2 episode 153) the gang accidentally winds up helping a nun rebuild a church and, of course, abandons the task in lieu of their original mission. jigen expresses some bit of dismay at that decision by telling lupin that doing so weighs on his conscience and that he’s never been able to ‘get on well with god.’ he slouches uncomfortably in his seat when lupin jokes about ‘divine punishment.’

jigen thinking about deeds & punishment overall is actually extremely prominent. to me it’s pretty safe to say that this is due to his mindset being heavily influenced by catholicism when it comes to morality. that also means that he feels guilty about pretty much anything he’s ever done in his far-from-divine life.

we see shades of this in part 2 episode 76 as well, where he gets into touch with an ex of his (angelica) whose advances he turned down in the past and who, as a consequence, became a nun ‘seeking love in god’ instead. she explicitly tells him that her decision is partly his responsibility. she dies near the end of the episode and jigen is seen standing at her grave, asking for forgiveness.

in the movie farewell to nostradamus he chides one of his adversaries (who is aligned with a corrupt sect) that a person praying to a god should at the very least believe in said god. in the mystery of mamo he is seen unsettled by mamo’s seeming omnipotence – and though hesitant to call mamo a god, strongly urges lupin not to fight him and outright refuses to join him in battle. after considering his reaction briefly, lupin smiles at him and says that that’s alright as this job may simply not be for someone too religious.

II.                   jigen and sins.

in twcfm episode 2 we once again receive some insight on his past in shape of his former employment as a bodyguard in a mafia family. though hired for general bodyguard work, the boss at one point orders him to look out for his (strongly implied) suicidal wife cicciolina who orchestrates an odd game of hide and seek that ends inside a church where she waits to be found inside a casket (probably completely naked, by the way). jigen does find her and is dragged inside by her just as cicciolina’s husband arrives, as well. she has him remain put by pointing out that they’d both be killed if they were to exit while he is there. her husband suspects foul play anyway, though, and later confronts cicciolina at home where the pair ends up fighting and the mafia boss is accidentally shot in the process. jigen comes running at the noise and decides to take the blame so that cicciolina would not get into trouble with the rest of the family. he escapes and is years later baited into reuniting with her at the very same church after having his gun stolen. here, he is mocked for his sincerity and jumped by several men with guns. however, what seems a simple ambush at first turns out to be a once more orchestrated farce by cicciolina who reveals that she’d either want to see jigen killed or die herself – then corrects that if she had to die, it should be by jigen’s hands (the latter of which occurs). at her grave, jigen is seen blaming himself (similar to how he was blaming himself for angelica’s death) before fujiko interrupts the scene and points out that cicciolina was killed by her past (implied: not by him).

jigen reappears in episode 5 where he is first seen on a small sailing boat headed for egypt, reading a book on egyptian mythology. specifically, he is reading a section on the scales of justice: “if his sins in life were heavy, the scales will tip and the deceased will never be reborn again. this is known as ‘the judgement of the dead’”. once he puts foot on land he encounters a tourist version of those scales when a child offers him to ‘weigh his sins’ for a fee. he is presented with a scale that carries a miniature heart and a feather and is told to pick up the heart and think back on his past sins. having done just so, jigen places the heart back on the scale and the scale smacks down at the heart’s end instantly, suggesting that his sins weigh very heavy. though he plays this incident off as ‘ridiculous,’ we see him still mulling over the concept much later when he is stuck inside the pyramid and comes across yet another scale of justice that is tied to a puzzle. lupin appears and we get this tidbit of conversation:

lupin: “the weight of a person’s sins, eh? sounds interesting. so it’ll open if this (miniature heart, similar to the one before) balances it out?”

jigen: “probably. but it ain’t gonna happen. there’s no one who’s sinless. it’ll tip no matter what. not to mention …”

lupin: “… that we’re sinners to the core? what’re you scared of? you don’t need a god to judge if your sins are heavy or not; you know full well what you’ve done in life. besides, if you do get rewarded with a rebirth, there’s no guarantee your new life’ll be a nice one.”

jigen: “my future is bleak either way.”

lupin encourages him either way and says that ‘there is no harm in wishing for a little fun’ before placing the miniature heart onto the scales that, unexpectedly, remain balanced just fine. in the following scene a trap triggers anyway and they are both swept away into a pit of quicksand. here, jigen admits that he is “no longer in a rush to die” following lupin’s ‘pep talk’ (thanks lupin for helping him figure that out, even) suggesting that he was extremely preoccupied with notions of death and potential religious consequences prior.

III.                 jigen and morality

the bottom line so far is that jigen is interesting because instead of being a cold, calculating hitman he is a (semi-)cold, calculating hitman while on the job but ends up with several regrets and second thoughts (although not in shape of ‘i should not have done that’ – much rather in shape of ‘there must no doubt be consequences for leading a life such as mine’). feeling guilty does not prevent him from carrying out dirty jobs and killing people, but it does make him pause, and there are many moments where his sense of morality also saves lives (one of the most well-known probably being in part 2 episode 44 where lupin and jigen steal an armored truck for its valuable cargo that turns out to carry zenigata inside. it is revealed that zenigata is slowly suffocating inside the truck and jigen repeatedly urges lupin to simply return the truck to its owners so that the detective could be freed, emphasizing that zenigata is a good person and that ‘his life is not replaceable’).

i’d say this is also the reason for why we get interesting scenes such as in part 4 episode 4 where jigen confronts an antagonistic gang for deliberately putting people into a comatose state. (the setting changes to a church here again, by the way. isn’t this fun?) they try to take him out but wind up shooting each other while jigen dodges their bullets, leaving only their boss alive who jigen decides to spare on the condition that he’d promise ‘to never do anything like this again.’ sure enough the boss breaks that promise almost instantly and jigen shoots the chandelier above him which then crushes the man. it’s striking that, for one, he did not kill any of the lackeys at all (which zenigata emphasizes upon arriving at the ‘crime scene’ and discovering the bodies), and for the other, that he first chooses to not take a life, then chooses to take it indirectly using a part of the church’s interior (divine justice, anyone?).

in spite of his line of work jigen IS concerned with doing the right thing (and i’m pretty sure lupin has called him out on that before; that their line of work isn’t exactly 100% reconcilable with jigen’s values. whenever i come across the ep again i’ll add it here?); for better or worse.

IV.                bonus. jigen and imagery

this will be more of an image dump than anything because i’ve been collecting a couple of them and couldn’t quite fit them in elsewhere without giving the text a clunky feel. but lupin iii actually does imagery pretty well (especially koike, i’ll have to say), so here’s some of my favorites:

in part 4 episode 3, jigen is captured by mi6 agent nyx and tied to a giant cross where he is interrogated and electrocuted for his lack of cooperation. lupin arrives to his rescue by travelling from a catholic church, through the sewers, to the run-down house jigen is held in. some of the images following each other are these (it’s nicely done given that jigen is pretty much choosing to suffer through his ‘crucification’ to protect lupin. note that while jigen is far from the first to be hugging crosses, other characters are not really put into immediate relation with church/religion like that. i think that in many cases the animators just liked the cross as an alternative visual over being tied to a chair etc).

in jigen’s gravestone we have, of course, the moment where after their first encounter with the movie’s main antagonist, jigen and lupin end up talking at a graveyard in front of jigen’s gravestone that’s been left with a small, blossoming parsley plant. lupin notes that this flower symbolizes death. (jigen is understandably not amused. considering that his opponent has a 100% success policy when it comes to predicting his targets’ deaths and jigen being susceptible to most things related to fate/destiny, that’s no surprise).

later during the final showdown jigen is shown on top of a church (?) bell tower delivering the arguably most decisive bullet with a long-range rifle while being surrounded by (probably) seagulls that look decisively close to white doves (which would have been hilarious, really). again, the idea of judgement ‘from above’ is one of the first things that come to my mind here (aside from how cool that scenes was).

if you read this far btw ilu say hi to jigen’s guilt complex for me ♡

[destieltropecollection]

Destiel Trope Collection 2020 Day 17: Hurt/Comfort & Whump

the time has come | @elizaeverafter

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 1068 Main Tags/Warnings: no archive warnings apply, non-graphic pet death, angst with a happy ending, hopeful ending, established relationship, married castiel/dean winchester, emotional hurt/comfort Summary: The second Dean walked into their home, he should’ve picked up on the fact that something was wrong. Looking back on it, it was so silent that it was suffocating. There was an unnatural stillness, like their house knew something bad had happened and was trying not to involve itself.

Beautiful | @ialwayscomewhenyoucall

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 1367 Main Tags/Warnings: human!cas, hurt/comfort, injured cas, first kiss Summary: “How long has he been sitting there?” Dean starts; he’d been watching Cas and hadn’t heard Sam behind him. “Five hours.” Dean practically spits out the words. “He won’t eat. He won’t move to a more comfortable chair. He won’t even take his damn pain pills. And he can’t tell me that doesn’t hurt, I know what a broken collar bone feels like. He’s just so--” ***** In which Cas, now fully human for several months, has been injured, and Dean has to Use His Words to comfort his friend.

Teardrops For You | @envydean

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 1500 Main Tags/Warnings: Grief, Character Death, Established Relationship, Funerals, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Dean and Cas holding each other, Sadness, slight fluff, Angst, Car Accidents, Nightmares, Cuddling, Holding, Crying, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting Summary: The accident killed her and left Dean alive and emotionally broken. He's a disgrace. His best friend is dead and he can't even cry for her.

Soup & Syrup | @suckerfordeansfreckles

Rating: General Word Count: 1548 Main Tags/Warnings: best friends to lovers, getting together, sick Cas Summary: Cas started feeling sick two days ago, throat raw and hurting, every part of his body in pain as if he’ll burn up with fever any second. Then he had to cancel his and Dean's weekly study date in the library this afternoon, to stay home and take a quick nap that accidentally ended up four hours long and left him groggy and sweaty and weird. Dean has been sending him texts, five since he cancelled earlier, and as soon as Cas felt awake and present enough to respond, he called. This is where they are now, around 1 a.m. on a Saturday. He didn’t really stop to look at the clock before he called Dean, but — well. He was just hoping Dean would be awake, maybe out with friends. He was just hoping that maybe, maybe, Dean would come by and dote a little on him. Just because having his best friend around always makes him feel better. Not because he craves Dean’s presence, his palm on Cas’ forehead and his hands tucking him in beneath his blanket. Absolutely not.

The Admission | @deservetobesaved

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 1720 Main Tags/Warnings: season 13, all the feelings Summary: Castiel finds out Dean threatened to kill Jack. He also finds out how broken Dean was when he died. So, naturally, he confronts him about it. A sort of fix-it coda, in or after 13x06.

Knowing | @unexpecteddreamz

Rating: General Word Count: 2013 Main Tags/Warnings: Castiel & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Demon Dean Summary: Of all the things Castiel might have expected to see, this was the last... It might well be the last thing he ever sees! Castiel is ""Always willing to bleed for the Winchesters"". Sam doesn't know how to fix what is broken. Dean is having nightmares. How did everything go so wrong so fast?

The Snow's Captives | SargentMom573 (AO3)

Rating: Mature Word Count: 2126 Main Tags/Warnings: Blizzards & Snowstorms, Sick Castiel, Caretaker Dean, Cabin Fic Summary: Dean was not going to make it alive down the mountain in a week’s time. Why? Because Cas was going to kill him, that’s why.

Skin Wars | @cr-noble-writes

Rating: General Word Count: 2319 Main Tags/Warnings: Angst, Artist!Dean, Model!Cas, body painting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cas protecting Dean from himself, shy!Dean, introvert!dean, Baby, graffiti artist!charlie, artist!Balthazar, art critic!Crowley, TV host!Anna, Skin Wars AU Summary: Dean, a traditionally trained artist, is competing for $100,000 in the reality body painting TV show, Skin Wars. He’s lucky enough to get paired with a friend as his model, Cas, for a particularly personal challenge. Dean feels his painting isn’t up to snuff, but what will the judges think?

Take Me Home | @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 2683 Main Tags/Warnings: Mentions of Rape, Mentions of Sexual Abuse, Non-con/Rape outside of Castiel/Dean Winchester, Hurt Dean Winchester, Protective Castiel, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, TW: Mentions of Non-con/Rape Summary: “I want to go home.” Dean let out, in a strangled voice. “Of course -” Cas reached for Dean’s hand, prepared to fly them away. Dean pulled away his hand, and rested his head backwards, against the seat. It seemed impossibly long before he finally asked. Unsure, as if somehow he still felt like Castiel could deny him anything. “Could you drive?”

Cold Comfort | @noiproksa

Rating: General Word Count: 3232 Main Tags/Warnings: Sharing Body Heat, Hypothermia, Huddling for Warmth, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Banter Summary: Dean and Cas are trapped in a room with temperatures well below zero. When even sharing vessel heat doesn’t seem to help anymore, they need to do whatever it takes to keep each other alive. (Intended as gen, but can be read as Destiel pre-slash.)

Exodus | @spnsmile

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 3365 Main Tags/Warnings: Explicit, noncon, hurt/ comfort Summary: Endverse!Dean comes back alive. He comes back to the camp to find he was gone for almost a month and that Castiel now serves a different captain. Like hell Dean Winchester will let that happen.

save that light | @specsofwings

Rating: Mature Word Count: 4779 Main Tags/Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Assassin Dean Winchester, Human Castiel, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Whump, Kidnapping, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Blasphemy/Religious Imagery and Symbolism, Crucifixion, Major Character Injury, Heavy Angst, Angst With a Happy Ending, Trauma, Healthy Relationship, Hurt/Comfort Summary: He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive— Dean isn’t sure if it’s his brain, if he’s speaking aloud, if it’s Jody, next to him in the car, but he’s alive, Castiel is alive, and then there is darkness.

The Empty's Curse | @cloverhighfive

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 5380 Main Tags/Warnings: major character death, angst, fluff Summary: Dean is dying and there is no getting out of it this time. After a round of goodbyes from friends, Castiel takes Dean on one last ride.

Shiver | @nickelkeep

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 5714 Main Tags/Warnings: Modern with Magic, Witchcraft, Getting Back Together, Blizzards and Snowstorms, Car Accident, Snowed In, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, NSFW Summary: In desperate need of his journal to complete a spell, Dean braves a snowstorm to return to the cabin - and the man - left behind. Can a freak accident repair what's been damaged? Or will their lack of communication push Dean and Cas apart forever?

Six Feet Under Water | zaphodsgirl (AO3)

Rating: Mature Word Count: 7638 Main Tags/Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending Summary: This story is inspired by the amazing art of dragonpressgraphics, accompanied by this prompt: "Can be canon or AU (though Canon preferred - see below why) where Cas almost drowns and either Dean witnessed it or rescues him - would love a fic where Cas then has to deal with fear of drowning afterwards - maybe Dean too has nightmares about Cas drowning because of the same experience (bonus if references are made to season 6/7 where Cas walked into the water because of the Leviathans). Loads of angst more than okay as long as story has happy ending"

This Path Is Paved With Kitty Litter | @navajolovesdestiel

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 8392 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe, Grieving Castiel (Supernatural), Caring Dean Winchester, Veterinary Assistant Dean, Deanna The Kitten, Explicit Sexual Content Summary: The man moved from cage to cage, petting each cat in turn. Dean could hear his sigh from where he was standing. Dean walked over to him. The guy looked up at Dean and again, his eyes made Dean’s knees weak. “Hey, guy, you spend a lot of time with these cats. You thinking about adopting one?” The look on the guy’s face went from sad to stricken. “Uh… n-no, I’m… I’m just looking at them.” The look made Dean’s chest hurt.

After the Fallout | @cr-noble-writes

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 8832 Main Tags/Warnings: Post-Apocalypse, Post-Nuclear War, some body horror, Major Character Injuries, Nightmares, Mutants, Minor Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Smut, Angst, Conspiracy, top!dean, Bottom!Cas Summary: Its been years since the nuclear catastrophe that decimated the world. From the moment Dean Winchester stepped foot on the surface again, he’s been running from mutant creatures that want to kill him. When will it end?

I'm Thankful I get to Leave | @sheinthatfandom

Rating: Mature Word Count: 11079 Main Tags/Warnings: thanksgiving dinner, alternate universe- human, dysfunctional family, uncomfortable topics, red flags, emotional manipulation, emotional incest, homophobia, ableism, racism, bad parent mary, bad parent john, bobby used to be married to mary Summary: Screw you Columbus now we have to eat at Mary’s pretending to not be the Jerry Springer version of the Brady Bunch instead of getting ready for Christmas.

The Last Thing I Wanted | @nickelkeep

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 11492 Main Tags/Warnings: AU - Fantasy, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Whump, Prince!Dean, Concubine!Cas Summary: When Castiel is grievously wounded during an unsanctioned battle, it's all Prince Dean can do to make sure he lives the rest of his life comfortably. However, due to the archaic laws of Terra, Castiel is too lowborn to hold lands, deeds, or titles. What better way to solve an archaic problem than with a just-as-antiquated solution?

Healing an Angel | @noiproksa

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 12017 Main Tags/Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Castiel, Canon Compliant, Friendship, Team Free Will, Wing Grooming, Aftermath of Torture Summary: Cas has been captured by shapeshifters who have been torturing him for weeks. The aftermath is not pretty, but Dean will do anything to get his angel through this and get him to trust them again. To make matters worse, the mastermind behind Cas’ capture is still alive. Will they be able to keep him from coming after Cas again?

Cloned to Perfection | @fangirlingtodeath513

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 16298 Main Tags/Warnings: Castiel/Dean Winchester,Castiel (Supernatural),Dean Winchester,Sam Winchester,Bobby Singer,Charlie Bradbury,Cain (Supernatural),Alastair (Supernatural),John Winchester,Alternate Universe - Future,Marine Castiel (Supernatural),John Winchester Being an Asshole,Canon-Typical Violence,Human Experimentation,Government Experimentation,Genetic Engineering,Clones,Gun Violence,Shooting Guns,Fugitives,Hacking,Government Conspiracy,Blow Jobs,Come Swallowing,Interrogation,Truth Serum,Needles,Brief Mentions of Torture (Not TFW),Alternate Universe - No Monsters,Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss,Castiel/Dean Winchester First Time,Hand Jobs,Angst with a Happy Ending,Happy Ending,Minor Ellen Harvelle/Bobby Singer,Minor Charlie Bradbury/Jo Harvelle,Minor Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester Summary: For thirty years, Dean’s been in the dark about a bombshell of a family secret. When an AWOL soldier shows up on his doorstep in the middle of the night, he’s shoved into a world he had no idea existed. He never asked to be cloned. He never asked to have his genome edited to make him a super-soldier. He didn’t even know. Now his fate rests in the hands of a ragtag group—Castiel, the AWOL soldier sent as a warning by Sam and Dean’s father; Charlie, an ingenious hacker and Dean’s best friend; and his brother Sam, who’s also being chased by the government for the same reason. Can they pull the rug out from under the military general who’s after their father’s research, or will Sam and Dean be doomed to live the remainder of their lives being experimented on by the military?

He Can't Sleep | @pray4jensen

Rating: Mature Word Count: 18970 Main Tags/Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Marriage, Domestic, Case Fic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Summary: He’s done soaping up Cas’ hair. He grabs the sponge at his side and starts to scrub at Cas’ skin, up along his arms, his neck, down his chest. When he runs it up his legs, to his thighs, Cas shudders and then there’s a hand cupping Dean’s cheek, cold and dripping water and soap, and Dean falters, looks at him for the first time. “Will you sleep with me?” Cas says. “Tonight?” Dean swallows. He says yes.

One Last Time | @confusedcasishere

Rating: Mature Word Count: 27370 Main Tags/Warnings: Sex Worker Dean Winchester, Dom/Sub, Dom Castiel/ Sub Dean Winchester, Lawyer Castiel, Top Castiel/ Bottom Dean Winchester, Porn With Plot Summary: After some convincing, Castiel agrees to try out a sex club. He’s nervous and looking for any excuse to back out, until he stumbles across a photo of a beautiful sub with captivating green eyes. Cas has to have him.

Highway to Hell (WIP) | @tucuxia

Rating: Mature Word Count: 31551 Main Tags/Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Gabriel Has a Crush on Sam Winchester, Alpha Sam Winchester/Omega Gabriel, Alpha Balthazar/Omega Crowley, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Past Abuse, Dean's life hasn't been great, Biker Castiel, Biker Sam Winchester Summary: Castiel, who shares leadership of the Hells Angels biker gang with his two older alpha brothers, finds out that a rival gang has been encroaching on their territory. During a tense meeting with the Devil's Blood gang in Lawrence, KS, he becomes the owner of a scared, broken young omega named Dean. Having forgotten how to speak after a decade under Azazel's cruel ownership, can the young omega learn to trust his new family, and maybe reconnect with the one he lost?

I Choose You (WIP) | @baby-in-a-trenchcoat7

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 43284 Main Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Destiel, Slight Smut, High School Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester Summary: High School AU. Castiel Novak has a dirty dream about the captain of the baseball team, Dean Winchester. Dean has a dirty dream about the nerdy Novak boy who hangs around the art room a lot. Castiel becomes Dean’s tutor, and the two soon learn that keeping their relationship platonic is harder than they thought. As their relationship develops, the two have to fight to overcome their problems while doing everything they can to stay together. Rated Explicit for sexual scenes.

Emergence | @ellis-park

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 58862 Main Tags/Warnings: Canon fic, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, amnesia, graphic depictions of violence Summary: Something’s been missing from Dean’s life for the past three years, a void left after a hunt gone terribly wrong. He often feels a sense of longing with no discernible cause, a need to talk to someone who isn’t there. A call from an acquaintance leads Dean to James Novak, a man who disappeared more than a decade ago, and suddenly Dean gets the feeling he’s found what he’s been missing. But James isn’t really James — he’s the angel Castiel, who’s wanted by angels, demons and hunters alike. And he may be at the center of the storm that wrecked Dean’s life all those years ago.

Forbidden Fruit (WIP) | @amyoatmeal

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 95427 Main Tags/Warnings: professor student au, stripper au, age difference, top!castiel/bottom!dean, unrequited castiel/balthazar, unrequited dean winchester/aaron bass, dean winchester & charlie bradbury, threats of noncon/sexual abuse, threats of violence, mentions of past trauma/abuse, angst Summary: Castiel Novak is a respectable, if not a little boring professor at his university. He lives a comfortable, financially stable life with his cat in his modestly-sized apartment. It would appear he has everything he needs, including an over-eager friend and colleague, but when fate tempts him with a seemingly familiar new student by the name of Dean Winchester, Castiel's comfortable life threatens to get turned on its head and things start to get a little juicy.

Stay With Me, Sweetheart | @a-mandala-rose

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 108710 Main Tags/Warnings: Dean/Cas, Dean/Lisa, Past Dean/Others, Past Cas/Others, Kid Fic, Serious Major Character Injury, Car Accident, PTSD/Panic Attacks, House Fires, Past Minor Canonical Character Death, Minor OC Death, Past Emotional Abuse, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Referenced Top Dean/Bottom Cas, Explicit Top Cas/Bottom Dean Summary: “Alright Cas, here comes the hard part. We’re gonna get you out of here, but we’ve gotta take the roof off and while we do that, we’re gonna have to cover you with a sheet to protect you from the glass. I’ll be right here though. I’m not going anywhere.” As he starts to drift away, he suddenly feels the press of Dean’s forehead against his own through the rough fabric and hears that warm, sunlit voice murmer quietly in his ear, too low to be overheard by the firefighters currently working to remove the SUV’s roof, “Stay with me, Sweetheart.” A single moment's distraction ends with a serious car accident that leaves Castiel trapped in his vehicle. Fortunately for him, fire fighter Dean Winchester is there, never leaving Castiel's side as the rest of his company work to free him from the mangled remains of his SUV. When the two meet again in the ICU, Castiel finds himself just as drawn to and comforted by the handsome fireman as he was during his accident. Dean is certainly attractive, but single father Castiel doesn't have time or space in his life for a romantic relationship. Then again, there's no harm in making a new friend, is there?

[kazbrkker]

Chapter 7: Bloody Reunions

Chapter summary: Time to get the Wolf. Alexis conducts interrogations like the badass she is, but sometimes it sucked being that good at her job. (Protective couple... you don’t even have to squint.)

Warnings: Misogynistic POS, emotional detachment, blood and violence, mild graphic detail of torture. (4490 words... i went hAM lol)

28 October 2019, 0630 "Alexis" and "Alex" | Codename Aces CIA with Demon Dogs Rammazan, Urzikstan

   "Place is a freaking morgue."

Judging by the piles of stacked bodies on the medical beds, it was a justified statement. Morgue might be an idoneous word for hospital. The patronising smell of death bypassed her as usual, but not the disturbing scene of unnaturally still bodies.

The handiwork of Roman Barkov.

There was a twisted satisfaction when Alexis shoved another magazine in her M4A1, knowing one of these bullets had Barkov's name mentally carved into it. She couldn't wait to see it lodged between his eyes.

"Check the bodies..." Sergeant Griggs ordered. The Marines and both CIA agents warily slithered along the occupied stretchers and medical beds—hoping none of them was sleeping with a gun.

It was a gut-wrenching sight. Bloodshed and raw injuries everywhere they turned. Not even sure if those alive should be considered lucky.

Suddenly, one of the civilians bolted into a sitting position, making everybody on edge. Frantic shouts and language barrier only escalated the chaos. Not willing to see another dead body, Alexis interjected in mediocre Arabic, calmly demanding the man to lay back down.

"More than a pretty face..." She looked distastefully over her shoulder, the Marine didn't bother wiping the smirk off his face and instead, shamelessly winked. Revolting, but she merely rolled her eyes, though a much younger her wouldn't hesitate to deck his face.

Gender discrimination in the military was a blast. There came a time when a heavy chip weighed down her shoulders—excruciating, yet she thrived under it. Often, some misogynistic meathead would challenge her.

Emotional, weaker, probably a lousy spotter, wouldn't last a week in the jungle.

Eventually, they all ate their words.

Alexis broke through every damn glass ceilings she went: the only female recruit in her company, made Lieutenant, then transferred to JSOC's Task Force Black. Impossible was understating things.

Her unconventional transfer to Task Force Black was a statement in itself. It finally felt like she earned it. Though she loved 88, the CIA was a nice change of scenery, where there were lesser suffocating males with inferiority complex and women were actually appreciated.

Five years later, such remarks were a humourless punchline to her. On the contrary, Alex fantasied how good Demon 1-2 would look with a bruise on his face. In the shape of his rifle stock.

Truthfully, even she considered shoving a middle finger. The weather was hot enough to vaporise her and having a tactical vest strapped against her sweaty body, was not it.

Things changed when another civilian to their 3 o'clock pulled out a gun targeted at the uniforms. While everyone was still busy hollering around, she shot a precise bullet between the hostile's eyes.

With a thud, the man fell off the stretcher.

The female agent scoffed, returning a satirical wink of her own, "Stay frosty, 1-2." He tripped around his words in shock, until Sergeant Griggs forced the gratitude out of him.

Well. If the Universe wanted to send it her way, who was she to reject it, right? She shook her head at the inevitable smirk on Alex, a subtle one hanging on her lips too.

It was a shame that the peace was ephemeral, by this time, several of Sergeant Griggs' men went radio silent. She religiously trailed behind Alex. They pushed further into the hospital, only to be met with a minigun.

"Mini my ass," Alexis laughed nervously as bullets sprayed inches away from tearing her abdominal—because of her ballsy move to switch covers.

"Holy fucking... Okay! Don't give me that look, Alex!"

She thanked the Heavens that Alex's yells were muffled over ricocheting bullets. Several smoke grenades later, Alex sniped the gunman and lo and behold, they finally reached a heavily chained door.

Score, imagery confirmed the Wolf was inside.

It was her job to clear the room while Alex secured the Wolf. Her index finger pressed lightly against the trigger, swallowing the adrenaline that dangerously swirled inside her. Upon Alex's signal, they sneaked in and hid behind messy shelves. The visual of the three missing Marines came into view, with one held hostage with a knife against his throat as the Wolf filmed another propaganda video.

"Check... Five hostiles."

"Affirmative. On my mark," Alex replied. A split second later, he tackled the Wolf from behind. His men's reactions were quick, but her years of muscle discipline was borderline supernatural.

"Clear!" Griggs rushed to untie his men. "You two good?"

Alexis nodded, tightening the zip ties uncomfortably around the Wolf's wrist. She began examining his body language, hopefully finding nibs of his tells to use against him in interrogation later.

Omar Sulaman was strangely calm for a man with a foiled plan. There was slight reluctance in his steps, but still, silence.

"Saint to Watcher, Wolf is in the bag."

Her voice was a stark contrast to the boyish tones that surrounded the room—earning the Wolf's attention, who made the bold decision to turn around abruptly.

"What are you doing here, daughter?"

Alexis felt the entire world's gaze burn into her side profile, equally as confused as the lot. She shrugged and walked away.

Inwardly, the interrogator inside was thrilled. The Wolf was in for a helluva surprise.

━━━━━

28 October 2019, 2100 Sakhra, Urzikstan

The air-conditioned room in the embassy was a godsend, not a word of complaint as the cold air blanketed her. Alexis, Alex, Farah and Hadir patiently waited for Price's arrival.

When Alexis expectingly popped a piece of mint gum, Alex knew. Though it didn't take an expert to discern the ominous aura around her. Alexis hadn't said more than what was necessary in the seven hours since they captured the Wolf, busying herself to study the Wolf.

Alex was smarter than to cut in between. Like Alexis said, she was damn good at her job. Interrogation was one of her most valued expertise, perhaps arguably why the CIA wanted her so badly and the reason why JSOC refused to let her go.

There was a secret to her tactics—compartmentalise. Alexis sat opposite the Wolf, gaze cold as ice. It was a chilling sight even for Alex.

Unscrewing his bottle, Alex greedily rehydrated himself, still observing Alexis. The grittier bite in her tactics was certainly noticeable. He guessed it had something to do with her incident. Having been captured once or twice, that was the closest Alex came to ever understanding her.

Sometimes Alex swore he never got her back.

Physical detachment was a given while she was... compartmentalising, although the rising situation gave him no choice. A shiver ran down his spine as he tapped her shoulders. At the slight arch of her eyebrows, "Bravo's three mikes out."

Alexis blinked slowly in comprehension, not realising Alex's first announcement shot past her. She nodded methodically, the metal chair screeched as she got up. She charged determinedly to an isolated hallway and slipped down against the wall, burying her head in her tucked knees. Despite the rapid intakes of breaths, it didn't suffice.

She loathed every single second in interrogations. Doing the Devil's work, she thought. The irony in this situation was her call sign. For someone called Saint, she didn't know anything else more normal than this.

Saint wasn't a moniker given to her because she was virtuous, innocent or some shit like that. Hilarious to think that, for its darker origin.

Every time she conducted an interrogation, she had to subdue the gag-inducing hypocrisy. How could she, after St. Petersburg?

The reports claimed it was a miracle she survived. Fuck that, what did they know.

That birthday was memorable, to say the least. He had even arranged something special that faithful day—nothing said happy birthday! more than electrocution.

152 days.

"ты прекрасна, ангел... (You are beautiful, angel..)"

"Fuck!" Her eyes shot open, desperate to let the ugly fluorescent light blind the image. Autonomously, her fingers scratched wildly across her arms. After a particularly deep breath, her head fell against the wall and like clockwork, she exhaled all her anxiety.

She was too good at pretending.

It was her desire to stay in solitude longer, but the shrilling embassy siren obviously had other plans. Doubling back, she found Alex at the doorway already looking for her.

"The Butcher and his men are about to breach. We need to leave, now." She peered into the room, barely seeing the tinted glow of the fire outside. Noticing the rising blood clots and angry red streaks on her forearms, Alex clenched his fists to restrain himself from reaching out, knowing she would only flinch. So, he settled for a hard swallow of his saliva, "Follow me."

Price's voice rang in their ears, "Saint and Echo 3-1, primary extraction failed. We're down on the roof."

"Understood. What's the call, Captain?"

"There's a saferoom in the basement. Head there. We'll be right behind you."

When they reached the basement, Alexis basically scrambled to the CCTVs for a sitrep–she had half a thought to join the sweep, eager to rid the hypocrisy from her systems. Eternity later, or in reality, twenty minutes later, their backup arrived.

Price.

The SAS Captain squeezed her upper arm in greeting. Lucky for her, it was where the bullet had previously scraped her. Price clapped Alex's back while glancing at her patched-up injury, "That fast, huh?"

Missed you too, old man, she thought, rolling her eyes as a response. Her coldness confused the Captain, eyes darting to Alex for an answer. He understood when Alex cocked his head at the Wolf.

"Let's move. Clock's ticking."

"You heard her..." Price ordered the Sergeant to direct the Ambassador secretary to safety and the rest headed to the parking lot. While Price and Farah went to retrieve the Ambassador's secretary, the two CIA agents stood guard at the car park entrance.

Under the flashing red coat of the emergency lights, there was no mistaking in the comfort Alex's concerned nod brought her.

It was apparent that Alex was her anchor. But in this state, she couldn't bear to look at him for long, internally disgusted by herself. All these years, she was petrified to ask if he was repulsed by her hypocrisy.

Then, she felt the hesitant touch of a coarse, large hand. She accepted it immediately—much to Alex's surprise. Their fingers intertwined secretly in the dimly lit hallway. Her eyes had long adapted to the darkness, able to witness Alex looking down at her and just like that, a sense of serenity flowed through her.

The unreadable expression on his face was a stranger to her in all their time together. Under the magnetic allure of Alex's gaze and the soothe whirring of his touch, it felt like they were worlds away from a war zone. Until gunshots unforgivingly interrupted.

She immediately retracted her hand.

Afterwards, the group slotted the obtained garage keycard. They fought through waves of Al-Qatala soldiers in low light, courtesy of the lacking streetlights.

The Ambassador's residence was no sanctuary either, as another wave of AQ fighters drew closer. Afraid the rising situation might delay their timeline, Price ordered her to start interrogations immediately. Her heart jumped at the unexpected news, suddenly thrown in the ring.

Hadir and Farah sent nods of encouragement before running out the residence. Price, despite raging at Laswell through the comms, mustered one last small smile for her.

That left Alex, who looked equally worried as her. Wordlessly, he tapped at the base of his neck. She understood instantly, feeling the cool metal of his dog tag against her skin. Obviously they had airtight obligations to not carry personal items, zero accountability and all, but it was Alex. She had corrupted him enough to not give a fuck.

The dog tag was nothing informative, only a simple 'X' carved messily from Alex's kitchen knife. Useless to her enemy, but deadly if it was ever pried from her neck.

It was a matching set. She mysteriously woke up with it after that night with Alex. His way of saying they'd always have a piece of each other.

With one last longing look, that unbeknownst to both of them—burned their insides, Alex left her alone with the Wolf.

━━━━

Her immediate observation? The Wolf was talkative.

It didn't faze her—narcissists simply could not shut up. Past thirty minutes, zero words retaliated and the Wolf was still going on.

Please. She wanted to yawn. Her legs swung restlessly while she sat on a table, undermining whatever authority the Wolf thought he had. The folklores he told in his grandiose sense of self-importance was vexing but valuable.

He hated women in combat. She learnt that when he tried to recruit Farah and even her, just minutes ago. Omar Sulaman thought women were weak.

Exciting.

As he rambled on, she almost failed to suppress a scoff. A woman wielding more power was his stressor, this meathead would be even easier to break.

"You have killer eyes," The Wolf said, tone switched from persuasive to intimidating. He exhausted everything—telling stories of what Barkov's men did to "weak" women, trying to scare her into his protection. Alexis hadn't bothered reacting, which pissed him off.

Victory surged past the fog of irritation inside her. She had conditioned the Wolf by staying quiet, truly a personal achievement. His narcissistic tendencies were itching to get out, evident from how he was desperately reaching for straws.

Alexis reached for her stripped vest and carelessly dug around for a plastic bottle. Popping the lid open, she chucked a mint gum in preparation.

It was time. Clouded by anger, he'd make mistakes that she would catch.

"Somebody hurt you."

She couldn't resist a huff at his eleventh-hour tactics. So the Wolf was now gunning for her emotional side? Fine, she'd bite.

"Don't act like you know me."

"Oh, child... I know more than you think. The look in your eyes, fear..." The Wolf paused, smirking arrogantly even at her mocking smile. "You put a great act, daughter. But I've been around longer than you... seen more."

"I bet... Because what makes a freedom fighter wake up and decide to switch sides?" Alexis circled him in pretence thought, "Money?" Noticing his jaw clenched, she pressed on it. "Power? That's why you made those videos?"

Alexis interrupted at the sounds of his protest, "Surely freedom fighters must not pay well. Maybe you got sick of that and switched?"

"I didn't switch sides! I was always on the right side."

"And what side is that?"

"The winning side," He snapped, "This occupation will never end if we hold sympathy for others."

A narcissist with a saviour complex, laughable. Alexis returned to stand in front of him, the grin ever present on her face. "But you didn't deny my claims—you want money and power."

The Wolf wanted to charge at her but was tied by the restraints, heavy creases in his forehead as he snarled, "No! I am saving Urzikstan!"

"Murdering people is saving them? I know people just like you, hiding behind a cause. After you kill Barkov, you will only start your own regime." Alexis chuckled darkly, "I'm not gonna let you do that. Don't bother holding out, nobody's coming to save you."

"Is that what you tell yourself?" At her strained expression, he continued, "If I die today, I die a hero. You? Your death will be meaningless, a secret." He continued laughing, "You Westerners... Busybodies, you have no business here. The price for that is death–"

He paused, not because of her killer gaze, but as if something in him clicked, "You have no family... That's why you are here." Loud waves of laughter escaped from the man, like he figured it out. And fuck, he did, word for word.

Alexis must have reached Nirvana or gained enlightenment, shocked by her restrain to not blow Omar Sulaman's brains out. She dare not move a muscle, refused to prove him right.

"When my men come, and they will. I will spare you, kill everybody but you. Maybe even make you watch that young man who loves you so much. Then, you shall know fear, child..."

That was it, her trigger point. Blood red. Hot flashes of anger. Picturing Alex's dead body was enough to chuck everything up. The wrathful voice inside her absolutely shattered her restrain, no longer concerned with not letting the Wolf gain an edge.

Alexis bit.

In a flash, she tipped his chair behind and roughly circled a hand around his neck.

"Don't. You think you know fear? You don't know shit until you carve your name on a disgusting brick wall with your bloody fingernails because it was the only way anyone would know what happened to you." Alexis spat, eyes boring at the choking man rendered helpless under her. "So don't fucking talk to me about fear, old man."

When the Wolf thrashed around to breathe, she waited another three seconds before releasing him—the once tipped chair landing wobbly with a sharp shriek. Her sudden outburst gained a new terror visible in the Wolf's eyes. No longer the delicate soldier his sanctimonious mind painted her as.

"Now," She slapped the invisible dust off her hands, tone bouncing scarily fast to normal. "Where is the gas?"

"I... I don't know."

Sighing, she wiped the sweat off her forehead and asked again. Still receiving the same reply, "And I don't believe you. Nothing escapes the Wolf. Someone stole the gas and you knew about it..." Alexis abruptly paused, fingers tapped against her forehead, "No, wait. You made a deal. Help whoever steal the gas and they promise to help you chase the foreign powers out?"

His silence was abundant.

There wasn't a tinge of remorse when her fingertips glided along a screwdriver.

"Since you have been here for much longer... You know this next part." As soon as she wiggled the screwdriver between her fingers, Alexis had him in the bag. The slight twitch under the Wolf's right eye was his tell, fear. Alexis witnessed it when she choked the living hell out of him.

Too damn easy. She should dress a big fat red ribbon across him right now.

"And since you know me so well," She gestured between them, "You definitely know that I'm a big believer in second chances. Right your wrongs, blah blah. I'll give you second chances. Many more, actually, I'm pretty generous... But I'm not sure if you can take it." With that, she ruthlessly stabbed into his left thigh, a devious smile spreading wider with the increased intensity of his screams. The metal tip squelched when she dug around.

"The gas?"

"I... Stop!" The Wolf bellowed in pain when she yanked it out, sprays of blood following. For someone called the Wolf, he had an embarrassing low pain tolerance.

She tilted his chin up, pleased as she surveyed the sweat that broke. "Here's your second chance. Third is when I snap your femoral artery and hang you for all of Urzikstan to see you bleed out. Your legacy will be a joke."

"Y–You can't do that..." He shook his head weakly, eyes blinking in pain. "Everyone will know the Americans are here... You'll be buried with me."

Reducing to eye level, she smiled wholeheartedly, "I'll make sure to dig a grave big enough for us both. Last call... Your third chance is coming," Alexis taunted, nodding towards the electrical screwdriver—witnessing the fear shudder across his body. "Where is the gas?"

She came so close to breaking him, practically seeing the words trying to tumble out of his mouth. Literally a blink later, a truck wildly crashed into their room, crumbling the house's weak foundations. Jerking to a standing position, she instantly reached for her sidearm and fired.

At least five men exited the truck, spraying bullets that forced her to tuck her body behind the slim profile of a cupboard.

They had AKs and she had a handgun, do the math.

She hurriedly pressed her comms, "I lost visual on the Wolf!"

Her instincts wrangled between fight or flight, seeing that she was severely outnumbered and the door was literally on her left. But the morality in her warred on. Suppressed under heavy fire, she still had no visual of the Wolf, but assumed he was freed by now.

She yelped in surprise as a painful tug tossed her out into the open. A burly man wasted no time to attack her. She barely raised her Glock 21 before he swiftly grabbed her wrist and pressed the magazine release button.

He wanted to reach for her Glock's slide lock before she elbowed his jaw, making him stumble backwards but made a quick recovery. He threw her into the metal table and she lost the grip on her gun.

Alexis' back arched painfully across the table, hands scrambling for purchase to rid the tightening hands around her neck. She weakly tried to pry in between his arms, but her lungs burned from the depleting oxygen. Fingers scrambling to poke his eyes and finally mustering enough strength, she sent a cheap blow to his nuts. He hunched over just enough for her to inhale loudly.

Seeing that, the Wolf's man started firing again.

She kneed him in the gut, put him in a chokehold and propped him up as her shield. The man's body jerked in reaction to every bullet he received.

Her ears picked up on the distinct sound of M4A1s approaching closer to her location. The Wolf motioned to leave, dust spluttering her way as their truck wildly reversed, with the Wolf grinning victoriously in the passenger seat.

"We will meet again, daughter! And your lovely man."

He left her alive. Like he said he would.

Miraculously still breathing, the man in her grasps used this distraction to tug on her legs. Seconds later, she felt a splitting pain in her head.

She was on the ground when she reopened her eyes, hazily feeling a wet sensation drip down her temples. The pain mirrored a wave, boggling inside her. Black spots started to consume the edges of her sight.

No no no.

From her blurry vision, she managed to squint out something glimmering in her 12 o'clock—she assumed a knife or her god damn screwdriver coming back to bite her ass.

Not like this.

The shuffles of dragged footsteps echoed in her brain, almost a warning from her body. She blindly saw the shift in light source, presuming he was walking towards her.

Incoherent words tumbled out, forcing herself to speak so she wouldn't pass out. Shaking, she pushed her upper body off the floor and stretched for her fallen sidearm...

That one bullet in the Glock's chambers was still waiting.

More blood flowed messily down her head, further impairing what was left of her vision.

Muscle memory dictated the rest—the grainy grip of her Glock, index finger looped around the trigger.

Alexis prayed when she fired.

At the assuring sound of a body collapsing, so did Alexis.

━━━━━

Price was the one to spot her.

"Clear!" He burst open the door, finding a jarring hole in the walls and an unconscious Alexis laying beside a dead man.

"Shit," Kyle said from beside him. "Is she breathing?"

Price shouted for Alex and the man instantly appeared beside him. Careful not to move her unnecessarily, two shaky fingers checked Alexis' pulse, Price felt his heart threatened to burst out.

"She's alive."

No one heaved louder than Alex. They examined her injuries, a large gash splashed across her right temple that hopefully a few stitches would solve. But her unconsciousness was troubling.

"How long has it been?"

"More than a minute..."

"Fuck, we need to do something!" Alex yelled frantically. Please, please, please wake up. Her chances of a brain injury increased by the seconds. Fuck! He should have stayed with her, why didn't he stay?

His hands gently cupped the sides of her face, feeling an onslaught of tears starting to form amidst the rising stuffiness in his nose. As his light-blue jeans was tinted a carmine red, he decided this was his fault.

Alex jerked at the mention of his name.

"Let me clean her injuries..." Farah coaxed, a cloth that reeked of disinfectant in her hands. Alex reluctantly shifted, kneeling beside her laying body and watched Farah dab carefully, venomously demanding her to exact more care.

"Alex," A powerful grip tugged on his vest, lifting him to his feet to meet John Price. "Ease off. Let Farah and Hadir do the work."

"Captain..."

"She will be fine, trust me." Price chuckled to himself, "Unbelievable. That woman is still an excellent shot." He whistled lowly, staring at the man with a fatal shot to his heart.

Price said with a knowing look, "Clear your head, son."

"Yes sir," Alex exhaled, going to retrieve her fallen comms set on the floor.

Seconds later, Farah yelled for them. The two men doubled back, finding Farah holding Alexis down from wiggling about. Alex heard a groggy mumble of his name.

"Alex..." Alexis repeated, head rolling around despite the yells of protest. "Where..."

"Here! Here! I'm right here. You need to stop moving, baby." Alex skidded to her side and held her outreached hands. His eyes raking over her as if he had the superpower to mentally check her wellbeing.

A weak grin formed at the realisation that he was alive, breathing and right before her. "The Wolf... He... The escaped... He... car... men."

"Shhh, we'll get him," Hadir tried to pacify her while handing Farah a clean cloth.

Ten minutes passed before she started making sense and was fully conscious. Though the pounding in her head was enough to last a lifetime. Her eyes averted to the dead man.

Jesus, the pain...

"Alexis." Price sternly warned.

"Get me up... I'm fine... Don't be a pussy."

Carefully positioning her to sit up, she weakly laid against Alex's chest. The man could care less when her blood seeped into his shirt—evident as he steadied her head against his own, refusing to let her move it wildly.

Staring at her bewildered teammates, she hazily slurred: "Well. Don't all of you look like shit."

‧͙⁺˚*･༓

a/n: i really went with the "i'm injured and my lover finds me and cradles me in my blood" trope and y'know what. y'all are welcome ;) btw sry for the late update... i edited this chapter 17 times lol i was so insecure about it. thanks for waiting lovers!

taglist: @flyboidameron​​ @wanderlustgiant​​ (wanna be tagged? lmk!)

[dolly-decadatia]

Notes 12/1/20 s.c book

Incorporate altered consciousness into practice as soon as I move to Nevada.

Reach state of ecstasy during rites- incorporate Invocation of Lust rite from LaVey?

Eww so much gender binary bullshit... kind of toying with the idea of pop culture paganism using Spike and Drusilla but grossed out by the gender binary and heteronormativity of the god and goddess and I don’t want that ickiness all over my comfort characters. Something to ponder further.

Reincarnation is brought up. Not sure how I feel about that either. This all made so much more sense to me when I was like 12.

Magic is the practice of moving natural energies to effect needed change.

I’m like 2 pages in and he’s annoying me already. I was definitely remembering Scott Cunningham with a nostalgia lens.

Next chapter is The Deities. Skipping this completely.

Chap 3 Magic:

2 main sources of energy: personal power, earth power.

Personal power- is the life force that sustains our earthly existences. We absorb energy from the moon and sun, from water and food. We release it during movement, exercise, and sex. Even exhaling releases some power, though we recoup the loss through inhaling. In Magic, personal power is aroused, infused with a specific purpose, and directed toward its goal.

Earth power- is that which resides within your planets and in it’s natural products. Stones, trees, wind, flames, water, crystals, and scents all possess unique, specific powers that can be used during magical ritual.

No matter the magical system, personal power must be infused with the need and then released.

I am more than comfortable incorporating negative Magic in my practice. Scott is super judgmental and priggish and I am not feeling his sanctimonious ranting on the topic.

You don’t need elaborate rites every-time. If nothing else, light a candle, settle down before it and concentrate on your magical need. Trust yourself.

Chap 4 tools

The broom- oh lawd he really thinks there were Wiccans during the burning times before Gardner was born. I can’t with him....

Anyway the broom is used for spiritual cleansing (don’t let the bristles touch the ground). Visualize the broom sweeping out the astral buildup that occurs where humans live. This purifies the area to allow smoother ritual workings. Since it is a purifier, the broom is linked with the element of water. Thus it is also used in all types of water spells including those of love and psychic workings. To make your own broom the classic formula is a ash staff, birch twigs, and a willow binding. The ash is protective and the birch is purifying. The willow is religious and therefore non applicable. A tiny broom of pine needles can also be used. There are many old spells involving brooms 🧹. In general the 🧹 is a purificatory and protective instrument used to ritually cleanse the area for Magic or to guard a home by laying in across the threshold, and under the bed, in windowsills, or on doors 🚪.

I personally like cinnamon brooms 🧹. I used to customize them for the sabbaths when I was Wiccan with colored ribbon and sprigs of the appropriate herbs or flowers. I miss doing that.

The wand:

Instrument of invocation. Also used to direct energy, draw magical 🧙‍♂️ symbols or a circle ⭕️ on the ground, to point towards danger ⚠️ while perfectly balanced on a witch’s hand ✋ or even stir a brew in a cauldron. The wand represents the element of air.

Traditional woods used for wand: willow, elder, oak, apple, peach, hazel, cherry 🍒 and more.

Can even use a wooden dowel and carve and/or paint it.

Crystal can also be used.

Any stick you find will be infused with energy and power.

Censer:

Incense burner. I liked the gold swingy ones because they remind me of Spike but I’m uncomfortable with the concept of a breeding pair of deities and don’t want to taint spike and Dru by pigeon holing them into those gross roles. Really really like that censer though... will have to ponder.

When no specific incense is called for in rituals and spells, use your own intuition and creativity in determining which blend to use.

Spirits can be called to appear in visible form in the smoke rising from the censer. He said “command” which seems rude and I don’t vibe with bullying spirits. I want to be their friends. He also said this is not a part of Wicca. I’m not Wiccan sooooo. C’mon incense ghosties. It’s party time at my place .

Sitting while breathing slowly and watching the smoke can be an entrancing act, and you might slip into an alternate state of consciousness.

Cauldron- ancient vessel of cooking and brew making, steeped in magical tradition and mystery. (Grain of salt- he’s talking about Wicca which is not ancient at all.) the cauldron is the container in which magical transformations occur; the sea of primeval creation. The cauldron is often a focal point of ritual. During spring rites it is often filled with fresh water 💧 and flowers 💐; during winter ❄️ a fire 🔥 may be kindled within the cauldron but the reasoning behind this is very religious so.....

The cauldron should be should be iron, resting on 3 legs, with its opening smaller than its widest part. It can be used for scrying by filling it with water and gazing into it.

Athame:

Used for directing energy not cutting. Often dull, usually double-edged with a black handle because black absorbs power. When the athame is used in ritual a bit of energy gets stored in the handle for later use. A sword can be used (like in Church of Satan rituals) if space permits. My trailer is so small it’s tempting to temporarily use a pocket knife until I move 😂. Scott says knives are phallic but pre op trans men aren’t shaped like knives. Coming out has really opened my eyes to how bullshitty concepts of yonic or phallic are. Not feeling it.

Bolline -

White handled practical working knife you actual use as a knife unlike the athame.

Crystal sphere- used for divination. They remind me of Dru because anything psychic does but like I said- I don’t want to disrespect Drusilla by show horning her into the Wiccan idea of goddess. Can be used to store energy or receive messages. Periodic exposure to moonlight, or rubbing the crystal with fresh mugwort will increase its ability to spark our psychic powers. It may be the center of full moon 🌕 rituals.

Cup- simply a cauldron on a stem. Scott calls it a fertility symbol. Gross. Not in my practice. Contains ritual beverage imbibed during ritual. I need to decide what my liquid will be. It was cranberry juice when I was a teen witch, wine as an adult, and Jack Daniels when I was a pop culture pagan (for spike). Cup can be any substance. I have an awesome baphomet goblet in the storage unit I can use. I still love satanic imagery.

Pentacle- Wiccan specific. Non applicable.

Book of shadows- can be handwritten or digital. Ideally rites should be memorized which is daunting with my learning disability and memory issues brought on by depression but I’ll try.

Bell-

Ritual instrument of incredible antiquity. (Source needed on that, Scott). Ringing a bell unleashes vibrations that have powerful effects according to its volume, tone, and material of construction. Also rung to to ward off evil spirits (what does he mean by that? Let’s not be frigging fluffbunnies) to halt storms or evoke good energies. Placed in cupboards or hung on the door, it guards the home. Bells are sometimes rung in ritual to mark various sections and signal a spell’s beginning or end.

As you collect each tool, you can prepare it for ritual. If old, it should be stripped of all associations and energies; you don’t know who owned the tool or what purposes it may have been used for. To begin this process, clean the tool physically using the appropriate method. When the object is clean and dry, bury it in the earth or a bowlful of sand or salt for a few days, allowing the energies to disperse. An alternate method involves plunging the tool into the sea, river, lake, or even your own bathtub 🛁 after purifying the 💦 by adding a few pinches of salt 🧂.

Use common sense and don’t wreck your tool with water or salt if the material would get wrecked.

After a few days dig up the tool, wipe it clean, and it is ready for magic 🪄. If you use the 💦 method, leave the object submerged for a few hours, then dry it.

There are consecration ceremonies later In the book. Use common sense and edit them as needed to make them non secular or hunt on tumblr for alternate methods.

[supermassive-blue-tint]

Midnight Sun Thoughts: Chapters 1-5

I am five chapters into Midnight Sun and I have SOME THOUGHTS. This is going to be a very long post in which I stream of consciousness type everything that comes to mind. Also I am very much enjoying the book, but I am also going to be critical of it too!

Possible spoilers below!

Let’s start with the positive things!

Getting a look into the minds of the Cullens/Hales makes me love them even more! Emmett is such a bro, so easy going, never anxious about anything (I mean we knew this already, but it’s just so much more pronounced!) I LOVE how Rosalie’s mind is portrayed because it’s so damn honest. She is selfish and vain. As someone who is currently learning that I don’t have to put every single person in the world before me, a little look into her mind is reassuring and refreshing. She only cares about protecting herself and yet Emmett still loves her... she’s still worth something even though she isn’t ‘good’ like Bella or Esme. Seeing the way Alice’s visions work is also amazing. Like the way she can search through thousands of decisions and the way things blur when someone is undecided. I also found it very interested that right from the beginning Alice already knew that Bella was either going to end up dead or a vampire. Kind of makes a little more sense now as to why Edward tried to keep Bella human for so long... he hated being confined within only two futures.

Another thing I thought was a great touch was the way Charlie’s mind is a little more wordless than the usual mind. Edward can tell what he’s thinking, but can’t hear the actual words. I wonder if Renee has some kind of gift too? I haven’t read to the end so no spoilers if this is true! Also interesting to think about how Charlie’s gift might have manifested if he had become a vampire.

It’s interesting how in Twilight the readers can never fully comprehend the horror and repulsion that the Cullens/Hales cause in humans, because we’re reading it from Bella’s perspective and she seems to be immune to this. It’s great to get a look into how most other humans do have some kind of subconscious understanding that something isn’t right and that the Cullens/Hales are a danger to them.

I also love the way Bella is described. It’s not how I imagined her in Twilight at all, which indicates she doesn’t see herself clearly.

Let’s get into some things I didn’t like...

Firstly, school being described as purgatory and then later hell, is so obviously Mormon/Christian. Please note I may get damn salty about this as I have actual religious trauma that often manifests as me picking apart Christian religion. Trust me I have nothing against you if you are Christian... I’m just traumatised by Christian religion and I think I have the right to be critical of something that harmed me. Anyway, the blatant Christian imagery is rife in the most stereotypical way. The angel and devil on the shoulder are mentioned as well. There are so many more nuanced Christian ideas that could be used... but instead it’s really obvious imagery. I also noted the mention of ‘atonement for sins.’ Not terrible, but really rubs me the wrong way as that’s the sort of rhetoric that distorts the view of the self and makes one think they are ‘bad.’

The most accurately Christian thing about this (and I feel I need to stress here that I’m about to talk about something that happens when Christianity is done WRONG. If you’re not doing it wrong then I’m not having a go at you) is the way Edward perceives his nature as monstrous. I cannot fully describe to you the parallels this draws to my own experience of feeling like a monster for being gay (/maybe demisexual or grey asexual, idk). Edward’s self hate, the seeing of himself as a sinner, as contaminated and not good enough for anyone else are very real and common results of Christianity gone wrong.

Another thing (not related to Christianity at all) that made me really uncomfortable was the way that Edward waited for an outright ‘no’ from Bella when he decided to talk to her again after the first night visiting her room. Obviously as we have already read this from Bella’s point of view, we know that she likes him too. But he doesn’t know. So when he hears things from her like ‘leave me alone’ and decides that’s not enough of a rejection and he should keep pursuing her it brings up this horrible idea that only no means no. Which is not the case, obviously body language and other words can indicate a lack of consent. Of course he does wait for her to eventually say yes, which is good... but he ignores so many implied ‘nos’ before that.

I also don’t like how Esme is reduced to the loving mother archetype. There is nothing wrong with this archetype, but it eclipses all the rest of her personality. There is an important place for loving mothers in the world, but not because it’s what women are ‘designed’ for, and not at the expense of a woman’s individuality and uniqueness. In a similar vein I hate it how Bella is perfectly ‘good’ and selfless. It’s such an unrealistic idea that perfection even exists. But it’s what Christian churches (particularly more traditional or strict churches) ask of their followers. It’s a ‘be perfect or you’re going to hell’ vibe.

I’d also like to point out that I don’t necessarily think Smeyer would intentionally go and put all this Christian stuff in Midnight Sun or any Twilight saga book. I think it’s more likely that she is so involved in it all that this is genuinely how she sees fit to explain the world. I remember reading Twilight as a 12/13 year old and never ever noticing any of the thinly veiled traditional Christianity hidden in it because I myself was so much a part of it that I didn’t know there were other ways to see the world.

Okay, end rant. Tune in next time for Lissa reviews Midnight Sun but then accidentally addresses her religious trauma.

[laularlau8]

As Gillian Anderson walked through the lounge of a posh Los Angeles hotel late last fall, I wondered how it was possible that no one pounced on her for an autograph or threw themselves passionately at her feet. The star of Netflix’s Sex Education, The X-Files, and soon The Crown was clad in a bright fuchsia tailored suit and seemed to radiate stardust from her pale pink pores, yet not a single head so much as turned. Instead Anderson quietly settled in beside a fireplace to observe others going about their business: well-heeled guests silently playing a mysterious board game with crystal discs, and a pack of shaggy-chic hounds that darted in and out of the room pursued by their equally rumpled master.

Anderson and I were supposed to be discussing season two of Sex Education, the British teen dramedy that was a surprise hit when Netflix first released it a year ago. She reprises her role as Jean Milburn, a forthright sex therapist and single mom to Otis (Asa Butterfield), who—despite his own bodily anxieties and absolute inexperience—follows in his mother’s sexpert footsteps and offers counseling-for-cash to his fumbling teenage peers. But Netflix had declared so many plot points off-limits, you’d have thought it was a Game of Thrones spin-off rather than a sweetly off-kilter series doused in adolescent horniness and confusion.

“I looked at the list of spoilers—it is basically every single plotline that’s in the entire season!” said Anderson. Suffice it to say that Jean remains the kind of parent who would loudly announce, “I’m so proud that you’re at this stage in your pubescent development.” She continues dispensing advice and embarrassing Otis by overstepping parent-child boundaries whenever possible. She also unabashedly pursues her own pleasure, even as Otis gets to grips (yes, literally) with his sexuality. “Poor Otis!” Anderson sighed empathetically.“I haven’t played many moms,” she said, sifting through a lifetime of roles in her head. Although she has three kids in real life, Anderson noted that  she’s “mostly played women that don’t have children.” Anderson specializes in high-intensity heroines, such as the iconic Agent Dana Scully in the The X-Files, a compelling detective pursuing a serial killer in The Fall, Great Expectations’ Miss Havisham, and All About Eve’s Margo Channing.

Her character in Sex Education is a rare comedic turn, though she approached it with the same desire for unpredictability. Anderson told me last year she wanted Jean “to feel grounded and neurotic at the same time. I wanted her to feel like she had things under control, and yet she might be losing her grip at any time. I wanted her to feel that she really was feeling like she was trying her best, and yet kept making mistakes and saying the wrong thing.”

Anderson has embraced her character’s sexpert status, dubbing herself “Shag Specialist” on Twitter, where she regularly posts playful images of things that look like genitals, hashtagged #YonioftheDay and #PenisoftheDay. She revels in the dilemmas Sex Education writers cook up for the scripts: One of her favorites this season involved a sexual experiment with a stocking stuffer filled with M&M’s. “You know those tubes that you get at Christmastime in your stocking that you can hang on your tree?” she asked in her crisp American voice, which occasionally strays into a British accent because she has lived in the U.K. for years.

Waving distractedly to a man in the distance, Anderson muttered in a hushed voice, “That’s my boyfriend, Peter”—The Crown creator Peter Morgan. The couple have been working together on season four of the series, in which Anderson plays U.K. prime minister Margaret Thatcher, but she insists there was no nepotism involved in the casting decision. “I’ve heard Pete say that were we not together, I still would have been offered it,” she said. I believe it: Anderson’s forte is exactly that type of steely charisma exuded by Thatcher, which earned her the nickname the “Iron Lady.”

Although she spent a portion of her childhood in the U.K. during the 1970s, Anderson said her family never cared about the queen at all. “I never paid that much attention [to the royals] until I was in a relationship with Pete,” she recalled. Even then, she didn’t immerse herself in the topic until she joined the show and, she said with mock exasperation, “it became a topic of daily conversation!” She dove into research on Thatcher’s life, searching for the key to that impregnable self-belief and drive that gave the Conservative prime minister her towering aura of authority and ability to bulldoze through any opposition.

“It was almost like she came out of the womb with it,” Anderson said. “Just seeing still imagery of her standing next to her father who was an alderman, she’s so self-possessed and she started making speeches back then. She probably watched him write them and absorbed it. But none of that really necessarily explains the particular power she had—how determined she was. She really believed that she had the answers.” Anderson ascribes that in part to Thatcher’s religious upbringing as a Methodist: “There were certain ways of doing things, and if you stick to the right behavior and right mind and right action then there are good results at the end of it. She felt like she could whip the country into shape in the same way that she could whip a household into shape.”

The Crown spent its first few seasons dramatizing Queen Elizabeth’s halting journey toward embracing her own power. She grew into her role in part thanks to the counsel and encouragement of past prime ministers like Winston Churchill and Harold Wilson. So it will be interesting to watch her more frictional relationship with Thatcher play out onscreen next season. Anderson said that while Elizabeth II and Thatcher were of a similar age, “their differences were such that you could understand why they would rub against each other.… They were the antithesis of each other.”

Anderson is fascinated by the way Thatcher came into her own later in life. Her own options seem to be similarly expanding as she grows older. She spent years adapting an Elizabeth Rosner novel into a screenplay but ended up putting the project aside because she was being offered constant acting work. “I haven’t been brave enough to create that time,” she said, “because there have been too many other tantalizing things.”

Her first big role as Agent Scully 26 years ago plunged Anderson into the maelstrom of celebrity sex objecthood—something that made her uncomfortable at the time. She said she feels much more comfortable in her skin these days. “Back then I never really quite understood what people were referring to, especially [with] Scully,” she said, letting out a throaty laugh when I stared at her disbelievingly. “I’m sure it had a lot to do with my own self-esteem or lack thereof at the time. But I can definitely own it now, in a fun way. Almost like, Really? Okay.” She paused to take a sip of tea and smiled. “I have fun with that because it won’t last forever.”

[descensummichael]

My Heroine (Michael Langdon x fem!OC)— ix. the darker it gets

Hey hi, back at it again with another part! I’m having a lot of fun writing this, despite me taking literally over a year to only have ten full parts written. Staying inspired to write is hard and idk how most of you do it tbh. Anyways, hopefully this part will make more sense than the last (lol). Catch up here if you haven’t already! 

Warnings: depictions of violence, lots of religious imagery, Arella is generally p feisty/angsty in this one 

Arella continued down the sidewalk, her heels tapping rhythmically against the pavement. She kept up her pace, not even glancing back as Michael called for her. The conversation that had just occurred between the two of them freaked her out, though she was determined to ensure that Michael didn't see this. The slight upper hand she had gained on him had been a pleasant turn of events, and she wouldn't allow things to swing back the other way.

She couldn't help but snap at him, closing herself off as he explained himself. But it wasn't anger that caused the reaction this time; it was blatant fear.

She knew exactly what he meant.

The feeling that the words weren't hers, even though they were clearly coming out in her voice. Feeling as though she was being manipulated into saying things she otherwise wouldn't. She understood it all.

And it terrified her, producing a frigid chill that coursed through her and made a home in her bones.

But maybe this was Michael's intention; these strange happenings did ultimately begin to transpire after their very first meeting in the bar nearly two months prior. Perhaps it wasn't a coincidence, and all of this was just his sick way of fucking with her head. There had been an evident power struggle between them since the beginning, and he didn't seem to be one who would give up his hold on it that easily. She was quite cognizant of his kind, those with superiority complexes so substantial that any loss of sovereignty could cause them to spiral.

The way Michael seemingly submitted, all arrogance gone as if he was no longer the same person, did not make logical sense.

The entirety of the situation, and Michael in general, did not make sense. Nearly every brain cell was screaming at her to run, to never look back. When her eyes met his, vibrant red danger signs flashed in her mind. This boy was going to bring her nothing but trouble, and the overwhelming sense she had of this was palpable. She could feel it in her chest as her heart threatened to pound through her rib cage. She could taste it on her tongue, feel its nails clawing at her throat.

Run.

Run.

Get away.

She was moving faster now, the clicking of her heels growing louder, less balanced. Her fingers reached up to her neck, wrapping around the cross that hung there so tightly she could feel it pierce into her palm. She was hot, feverish almost as she glanced over her shoulder, almost half-expecting Michael to be there. When he wasn't, she breathed a sigh of relief, her hand falling to her side as she looked forward again.

If Michael intended to drive her mad, it was working, she thought, becoming irritated with herself more than anything.

Unaware of where she was headed, if anywhere at all, she allowed her subconscious to provide guidance. It always took her to where she needed to be. Pulling her hood low on her forehead, she let her mind to go blank, counting the number of steps in between each block of concrete.

One, two, three, one, two, three, four, one, two, three...

Shortly after, she stopped at the bottom of a massive set of stairs. Sighing, she ascended them hastily, yanking open the heavy doors at their peak. After removing her hood, she smoothed her hair down as she took in the dimly lit room. It was completely empty this time of night, the tapping of her boots noisily echoing as she made her way to the front pew. As she took a seat, her eyes settled on the large crucifix before her.

If anyone could help her, it was him. She allowed her eyes to fall shut, lips moving in a silent prayer as she clasped her hands on her lap.

But she couldn't stop thinking of Michael. She couldn't stop thinking about what he said, how she was desperate to fulfill her parents' image of her. How all of it was a lie.

Seems like bullshit to me, Michael's words murmured in her mind.

Maybe it was bullshit, she wondered, but promptly shoved these thoughts away as she began muttering a prayer aloud.

"I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth," she spoke, squeezing her eyes shut.

You come here, pleading to god, pleading he'll put you on the right path, his articulate statements came again.

"And in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit," she continued, her tone growing louder.

Let me tell you something.

"Born of the Virgin Mary," her voice cracked.

He's not listening.

"He descended into hell," she could no longer think straight, the saccharine intonations in her mind taking over.

He's not listening.

He's not listening.

He's not listening.

Was he? She wondered, the chorus in her mind ceasing all at once, leaving her in a deafening silence. The only sound was her breaths as she attempted to even them out.

The longer she sat there, the quiet atmosphere hanging uncomfortably around her, the more she believed Michael's words. Arella had spent much of her life struggling to correspond to the expectations her parents had for her, but none of it was ever enough. She had a temper, she was much too loud for a little girl, too stubborn, too bossy, and for heaven's sake, why couldn't she just take things for what they were without arguing about it?

She yearned for something different, to be free of the constraints placed on her since she was a child. And here Michael was, literally offering a chance at that. She was well aware of how wrong it was, the ache she had for him, but she was finding it harder and harder to resist.

Sighing, she pressed her palms against her eyes before speaking dryly: "God, help me."

But no help ever came.

❦❦❦

Arella was beginning to hate herself as she swiftly proceeded down the steps and onto the sidewalk once again. A chill had descended, and she shoved her hands deep into her pockets as she headed back in the direction of where she parked her car. Sliding her phone out, she was almost tempted to get an Uber back to the cafe.

Stupid, she thought to herself, tapping on the screen with her nearly frozen fingers.

She didn't have a chance to react as she collided with someone walking the opposite way. Slightly startled, she stepped back, going to move around them. Fingers grasped her left arm as her phone was taken out of her right hand. Her gaze drifted from the hand clutching her arm up to the face of its owner.

"You should watch where you're going, baby. Never know the kinds of people you could run into on these streets," the stranger spoke, a malicious smile forming across his features. He was still holding her phone above her head, a chuckle leaving his lips.

She smiled sweetly at him, juxtaposing the rage she could already feel amplifying, scraping at her chest, begging to be free. "You shouldn't have done that."

"What?" He questioned her, sneering. "What are you going to do about it, little girl?"

She wouldn't— couldn't— swallow it any longer, burning white-hot behind her eyelids until her irises were nearly black. Blatant ignorance was one thing, but condescension she refused to tolerate.

She tilted her head slightly to one side. A cracking sound resonated as each of his fingers were removed from its grip, bending unnaturally backwards.

"What the fuck?" the man exclaimed, falling to the pavement below him. "What did you do to me?"

"You're right," a final crack came from the arm holding her phone. Crouching down, she plucked it out of his hand. "You don't know the kinds of people you could run into on these streets. You should really be more careful."

She smirked down at him as he cradled his arm in his broken fingers, tears streaming down his face now. She stood back up, continuing on her way as she ignored the cries coming from behind her.

She knew exactly how she was going to handle Michael and the whole situation.

Maybe God was listening after all.

[afraidof-thedark]

I was at a rural farmer’s market on a sunny day when something caught my eye. Amid stalls of questionable antiques was a treasure trove of old horror books that were in sad shape. Amid these gems was Murder in Amityville, written by Hans Holzer and published in 1979. Its two-dollar price tag made it too good to pass up, sad shape or no.

The DeFeo murders have always haunted me, even without the added notoriety of what happened to the Lutz family when they moved into the house a year later.

On November 13, 1974, 23-year-old Ronald DeFeo Jr. stumbled into a bar in Amityville, New York, begging for help.

“I think my mother and father are shot,” he cried.

As it turned out, it wasn’t just his mother and father. DeFeo was the only survivor of a massacre that also took the lives of his four siblings, who ranged in age from nine to 18.

Ronald DeFeo Jr. was eventually convicted of the murders. He gave several different reasons for slaughtering his family, but the most chilling was that he heard voices in the house telling him to do it.

When several psychics, including the late Lorraine Warren–subject of the Conjuring movies–were invited to the house to conduct an investigation, they claimed an Indian chief was buried where the house now stood, and that he sought his revenge by getting any men living in the home to do terrible things.

Murdering six people would certainly qualify.

Here are the facts: DeFeo Jr. used a 35 Marlin shotgun to kill his family while they slept. He fired nine shots. His lawyer, William Weber, said the gun could be heard four to five blocks away when they tested it during the trial, and yet, all neighbours heard was the family’s dog barking.

Even more troubling, the DeFeos were all discovered in the same position–lying facedown in bed, apparently deep in sleep. The family’s bedrooms were on two different floors of the house. If the shotgun was loud enough to be heard four or five blocks away, how come none of the family woke up? The autopsy showed the bodies had not been moved after death, and there were no drugs or alcohol found in their bloodstream.

So if DeFeo did do it, how did he manage to kill six people with an extremely loud weapon without a single one hearing the blast and attempting to escape, or at least leaving their bed to find out what was happening?

I say if because the murders have always been cloaked in controversy. Some believe DeFeo had an accomplice, and many believe that accomplice was his eighteen-year-old sister Dawn. In one of DeFeo’s many versions of that night, a figure in a hooded jacket and dark gloves handed him the shotgun, and in his addled state (DeFeo both admits and denies he’d used drugs that night) he used the weapon to follow her bidding and kill his family. Sometimes the figure is a demon; sometimes it’s Dawn. Two aspects of Dawn’s death differ from the rest of her family’s–her killing was the most brutal, her head almost obliterated by the shotgun blast. There are also reports that her nightgown had unburnt gun powder on it, strengthening the theory that she also fired the gun. But if that was a valid suspicion, why not test her hands for gun powder residue?

Dawn DeFeo

Why would DeFeo show such brutality towards the sister he was closest to? The way she died fits the narrative that it was Dawn who killed the rest of the family. As the story goes, DeFeo was so horrified when he saw what she had done, he shot her in the head. (The rest of the family was shot in the back.)

During his interview with Holzer, DeFeo said he heard strange noises and “different things at night” starting on his very first night in the house at 112 Ocean Avenue. (The street name has since been changed to deter tourists.) “You felt as though somebody may have been walking around, pipes banging, all these strange noises,” DeFeo adds. “In fact, everybody thought there was somebody in there a week after we moved in.”

Sometimes the family could hear people screaming, DeFeo told Holzer, even though no rational source of the sound was ever discovered. A painting was moved from one floor to another, but everyone in the family denied they had done it. He said his parents believed that the devil was in the house, and that was the reason for the extreme amount of religious idolatry on the grounds. DeFeo in particular felt tormented by whatever was happening in the house, and ran away several times, warning his father that he feared he would kill everyone in the house if he wasn’t allowed to leave.

Clearly DeFeo was a troubled young man. He got in frequent fights with his father, who some claim could be physically and mentally abusive. He’d had problems with drugs and was often in trouble. Neighbours described him as a “punk.” But let’s say he was at least partially influenced by something in the house. I asked Laurie B., a noted local medium, if she believed such a thing were possible.

“Can evil spirits influence someone? The truth is yes, but only if the person chooses to be affected. You can have two people living in the same place and only one’s attitude changes. The reason is that within the individual (who changes) there was a lot of discontent.  And I’ve never heard of anyone killing because of a spirit; it’s mental health issues, a horrible childhood, jealousy or other personal reasons,” she said. “Now about Ronald DeFeo, back when I  heard about him, my first thought was that he suffered from schizophrenia or other mental illness.”

She goes on to explain why forces in the house could impact DeFeo and the Lutz family, while several people who lived in the home afterwards said they experienced nothing out of the ordinary.

“I found that the increase in spirit activity is equal to your emotional state. In places where no one pays attention, there’s no activity or it remains low, if anything at all. When people begin to notice, the sightings increase. If individuals provoke, or they’re uncomfortable with the situation or afraid, that acts like an adrenaline high for the spirit and their focus is all on you. Once the spirit has a taste of its impact on the living, he/she then continues to grow and get stronger. Even if the next person had never been there before, the spirit is more than capable of causing havoc.”

Since Laurie has never visited the house on Ocean Avenue, she can’t comment on whether or not the house is truly haunted, but she could say what she would expect to find in a house where six people were murdered.

“Most commonly found in locations where there were a number of murder victims, sounds of footsteps or voices, even sounds of furniture being moved around, were often heard. Others might see orbs, shadows, apparitions and observe objects move. Some people feel the spirit stroke their hair, touch them or in extreme cases become more aggressive. There are reports that range from pleasant smells like flowers, to the stench of burning flesh,” she said.

“In some locations, there is what we call a residual haunting. It happens when a dramatic event leaves an imprint on the environment, which will then be re-enacted over and over again. It would be like watching a video that was made when the individual was still alive, but now all you see is the imagery of it.”

If DeFeo killed his family, what was his motive? He had problems with his father, but was close to his mother and Dawn. Was it to protect his inheritance? Was it insanity? Or did the house drive him to kill?

And why did none of the family hear the shotgun? Why didn’t anyone try to escape?

Sadly, we’ll probably never know, as the one person who could tell us keeps changing his story. But what do you think happened? Did DeFeo have an accomplice? Did the house make him do it? Was it an untreated mental illness that made him kill?

-J.H. Moncrieff

[ephemereos]

This is gonna be a bunch of nonsensical thoughts, but lately i’ve been reflecting a lot bout my relationship with religion and religious beliefs. I’m Italian and I’m from a catholic family. A very catholic family I’d say, nothing too over the top, but still quite attached to religion. From a very young age, as soon as I was able to sit still and behave, my mom started taking me with her to mass every sunday morning. When I was little i’d like that. I liked sitting there, with the mass of people praying and singing together, I liked listening to the stories from the bible, it was almost a fun event for me, it didn’t feel like a chore. At that point in my life I felt safe there, because what i’d get from those masses was “Jesus loves everyone. If you do wrong, he will forgive you as long as you admit you did a bad thing and feel bad and try your best to make it up and do better.” I also had the luck that the priest we used to have was a nice, calm, kind old man. Reserved and almost “professional” but loving and kind. He overall was quite a good person. Then cane the time when I reached the age to go to catechism lessons to you know get ready for communion and confirmation. Around that time, my neighbour also had to start, but along with catechism he would be “studying” to become an altar boy. I begged my mom to let me do that too because I always admired the kids who were like, helping the priest and all that and I wanted to do that too. My mom let me do it, and was actually kinda surprised I showed interest in that. So for years I went on doing that, helping my local church and later on getting communion and confirmation. On both occasions my grandmothers wanted to go all out because to them, especially the one on my mother’s side, it was something extremely important. She got me a pendant with the virgin mary and my (dead)name and date of confirmation engraved on the back. She always asked if I went to church regularly and all that. Those days it felt good and right to always go there, but growing up it started feeling...uncomfortable. From the age of 12 to 14 I stopped going because I went to live abroad and when I came back it started feeling more and more like a chore. I got forced by my parents to join the church’s youth groups, where I always felt out of place and uncomfortable. During that time was also when I started feeling like I might not be a girl, and that i might have liked girls too as well as boys. That really fucked with me. to top it all off, the priest we had before went away and a younger, more conservative and bigoted one arrived. ( Jsyk: this priest is still here but many are unhappy because there is a chance he might be corrupted or something. Anyways, hes a bitch) That’s when I began to completely detach myself from religion, although it’s a hard process that’s still going on. I completely stopped going to the youth groups, not giving a real explanation because I was too scared and embarrassed and I stopped going to church except on rare occasions because I felt on edge. As if the old women might try to harass me, despite there being NO PROOF they would do that. I’m just paranoid. With the fact I grew up in such a religious environment, though, the guilt of detaching myself from it still haunts me, eating me alive from time to time. Every time I get asked “are you religious” I don’t know what to answer because I’m not really religious, but I’m not completely atheist either. I’m in a weird limbo where I fear the wrath of a God I used to feel so close to, but at the same time I do nothing to honor him and I don’t pray every night anymore. I feel a strong guilt because of my love for religious symbolism and imagery and I feel like I’m being blasphemous if I wear a cross or pose like a religious painting/sculpture while being a dumbass with my friends at art museums. And all this is another reason why I always try to understand or even defend religious people who are doing no harm and that get made fun of or mocked by atheists that think they’re “morally superior” or something. Religion is something private that can give a certain comfort and anyone should be free to hold on to the bit of faith they have if they want to. Most religious people don’t harm anyone, so why give them shit for it. This isn’t meant to go anywhere, but I wanted to dump my thoughts somewhere.

[ollyarchive]

Olly Alexander Just Wants to Be Straight with You

BY

BRENNAN CARLEY

PHOTOGRAPHS BY

ALEX RESIDE

The Years & Years frontman is back with a new single, a new hair color, and a new outlook on straight men.

Olly Alexander walks into GQ's photo studio and removes his hat, revealing a shock of brightly dyed red hair. Whether that means something to you or not depends on how familiar you are with and fanatic about the British singer's incredibly popular band, Years & Years. The trio's already put out one incredible album (2015's Communion), picked up fans like Katy Perry, and are now gearing up for their sophomore project, coming this summer and anchored by the just-released "Sanctify", which chronicles Alexander's experience sleeping with and falling for a straight man. It's an effortless synth-pop song with vivid religious imagery, a sticky chorus, and cheeky lyrics like "You don't have to be straight with me / I see what's underneath your mask," which is sort of Years & Years' sweet spot: Just when you think you have them figured out, they take you to a deeper place than you thought pop music could go.

Alexander, who's 27, is also known both for his acting work (you may have seen him on Skins) and for his outspokenness as a member of the gay community (his 2017 BBC documentary, Growing Up Gay, is a phenomenal watch). Boyish in appearance but confident in presentation, Alexander lounges in a windowless green room in lower Manhattan, fielding our questions about self-care, new music, and—yes—straight men.

GQ: When did you start working on the album? Olly Alexander: It was September 2016. We had finished up the majority of our touring. We were gonna take a break, and I...didn't take a break. I just started working on the second album. I did take like three weeks where I just deliberately did nothing and read books and stuff at home. But I also went to Taiwan and Bali by myself. It was a really good trip. It was fun.

I love being alone. [A solo vacation's] not for everybody, but I just like how you can do your own thing at your own time. You don't have to give a shit about anyone else's preferences, what they want to do. And you make friends and stuff.

Have you always liked being alone? Solitude is very restorative for me, especially because I spend so much time around other people and performing to people. And when you're on tour, you're sharing a bus with 20 people.

How did you handle needing solitude on the road? It's tough because you're constantly traveling, and you're in this whirlwind with no stability. I definitely got better at creating my own personal alone time within the company of lots of other people. It would be like, "Don't talk to me. I'm reading my book. I'm inside my bunk on my tour bus, and it's like literally a coffin." No one can come in, and I can just close the curtain and be here and be alone. And then, also, I would do things. It's fun touring. In America, the drives are so long, and then you make a stop over in El Paso or Cleveland. In Cleveland, I remember we had a day off, and I just Googled "things to do in Cleveland," and number three was "the cemetery." So, I went! And it was a good cemetery. Spend more time in cemeteries.

Why'd you jump right back into writing after the first album cycle wrapped? In my mind, I was like, "I'll just get loads of songs out of the way because I know how this process works. It's gonna take a really, really long time to find anything good, and I just want to get a good chunk in right now. And then I'll take the rest of the year off and start again in the New Year."

Once I started doing it, I was like, "Oh, I actually really like writing music." When you're touring and promoting an album, I wasn't writing any music or necessarily being super creative at all, and I forgot how much that's very important to me. It was encouraging because there's always a part of you that thinks, "Maybe I just can't. I won't be able to do it again. I won't be able to write another song."

Where did "Sanctify" come in the process? It came pretty early. I've been having a lot of encounters with straight guys that were not being straight with me and were struggling, to put it lightly, with their sexuality. I was very fascinated by that dynamic because for starters, it's a very common experience, I think, for gay men to fall for a straight guy.

I mean, I've done it. I think for a lot of gay guys, you're at school and fall in love with your straight friends. That happened to me, and I think that's really super common. But also, now that I'm an out gay man—very out—I've noticed how some straight guys gravitate...it's weird because I've almost found myself having these encounters with straight guys and find myself playing this saint and sinner role, or like this angel and devil, because I'm leading them down the path of "sinful gayness," but also I'm helping them satisfy the sexual desire that they feel they can't get anywhere else. It's strange to have that dichotomy, and so I was like, "I'm gonna write a song about it!"

Most of my straight crushes happened when I was younger, where it's like, "Oh, I feel like I can lust after this person because it's likely never going to amount to anything because they're straight, so it's not gonna hurt me in the end." I relate to that 100 percent. That's something that I felt when I was younger. But then it happened to me recently where I was like, "Am I having feelings for this straight guy? What is that about?"

It's like you said: Putting away your emotions and investing in someone that ostensibly is never gonna give you that back. It's kind of heartbreaking. Why would anybody put themselves in that position? I think when you're a gay guy, navigating the dating world and romance, it's hard enough. If you're just stepping outside of all of that bullshit and just putting it on a straight guy, you're right: "Oh, that will never happen. My feelings aren't gonna get hurt." Even though they always kind of do. You're lying to yourself.

Have you felt from straight men—or men that present as straight, I suppose—that they've projected those angel and devil roles back on you? Yes. It's funny because it's like you feel the sense of responsibility to not fuck up this guy that's clearly struggling with his sexuality, but then resenting the fact that I had to tread on eggshells.

Is it especially hard for you to date because you're you? Yeah. It's funny because I downloaded Grindr. I was newly single toward the end of 2016, and I've been in relationships all throughout my 20s, and I was like, "I really want to be single, and I need to be alone." I think it's the right decision, but I'm literally like...I haven't seen Call Me by Your Name, and now I just cannot watch it because I'm just like, "Why would I watch depictions of two men being in love when I know I'll die alone?" I just can't handle that right now.

Anyway, when I was newly single, I downloaded Grindr because I'd been in relationships or I'd been in the band. I couldn't have Grindr, but then I was like, "Wait, but why the fuck can't I have Grindr? I want to have this experience." You know? So I downloaded it and I was on it, and then it was just weird because people would think I was catfishing myself, which was kind of a head fuck.

Grindr has some great things about it, but it also has a lot of negatives, and it's just very hard to trust anybody. It just feels like this meat market of dick pics and sex positions. "Are you a top or bottom?" It does kind of depress me a bit, even though I love to hook up as much as the next guy. It's good for that, but people would think I was catfishing myself, or they'd be like, "Oh, I'm such a big fan," and that's kind of a turnoff, so it didn't go super well for me.

You know how some people have dreams of moving to Florence or living in Seoul? You can still do all of those things, but I always think for queer people, "Well, I kind of need to live somewhere where I'm not gonna face abuse." A queer-friendly place. I think a lot of straight people forget that sometimes. They're surprised when I say that to them.

I think the assumption with straight people is that it's 2018 and even though things are better for gay people, it's not entirely true. I went to a wedding in San Antonio with my partner a couple of weeks ago, and I remember thinking, "Oh! This is the first time in a long time that I have not felt comfortable!" Yeah, I totally agree with you. Back when I had a boyfriend, if we were getting a cab together, I would a be a little uncomfortable kissing in the back of a cab. A lot of that has to do with my own issues around internalized homophobia that I grew up with, but at the same time, I do live in a really gay-friendly city. But if you leave London, half an hour away, you feel like it's a completely different landscape, and, you know, it does feel very threatening to just hold your boyfriend's hand or be yourself.

That is the reality for most queer people. I think we have made amazing strides in so many ways and we can be super happy about that, but it would be delusional to think that everything's fine. It's also because the LGBT community is so diverse, so intersectional, and I think people outside of the community forget that. But people within the community forget it, too. We don't actually reach equality unless everybody has equality, but if you're used to privilege, true equality feels like oppression. Unfortunately, we're white gay dudes, and we are a minority, and we have our own systems of oppression, but we're also at the top of the privilege tree. I think there's a lot of imbalance there.

I'm always gonna support my siblings in the community, but it does make me really sad to see how much racism, sexism, and transphobia that exists from within, and I think there are lots and lots of reasons for that, but we just can't really lose sight of the fact that we're all fighting similar battles.

You use the word "queer." A lot of people are still uncomfortable with that. Yes.

Have you had a moment where you've said to yourself, "I am comfortable using this and here's the reason why"? Yeah. Whenever I have these kind of conversations, I try and say I personally like "queer," but I understand that it's really painful for many people, and I've had a few people get offended with my use of the word, which I do completely understand. I'd like to think I have enough humility to be able to engage with that person that has the problem with that word, and I would listen and I would try and learn something from that experience.

I suppose for me, I like it because it feels very inclusive. "LGBT" is also good, and both feel separate but also similar. I don't know. I would be interested to hear what you think about the word and the use of the word.

I feel the same way. I think it's a generation who grew up knowing that word as an insult and a slur, that's hesitant to let a younger generation reclaim it. I think in 20 years, the gay twentysomethings at that time will be using "fag" as slang, but I was called it when I was younger, and I'm not comfortable yet letting that word be reclaimed. Yeah, I feel the same way about that [word], too.

It might say more about me than it says about them. Maybe I should be thrilled that they're so comfortable to take that word, especially when we're having the conversation about "queer." I'm comfortable using "queer," but it's also because the kids who were bullying me when I was 12 and 13 weren't using that as an insult. Exactly, yeah. I have not grown up with being victimized by that word. That is a super important distinction. But some gay guys feel like it diminishes a gay identity, and I love being a gay man. I identify as a gay man all the time, but I also like to identify as queer. I suppose it feels like it encompasses my gay identity, but it also encompasses some other stuff—a more fluid approach to my gender. And I feel like when I spend time with my friends who identify as genderqueer or non-binary, queer feels like the best word for us all as group. Language is so multifaceted, and these are words that we can employ in different situations, and they don't have to be fixed. If we're just carrying on these conversations, then I think we're fine.

You talked about the people that you have surrounded yourself with. Have you built up a support system within the community? Oh yeah, 100 percent. I moved away from home when I was 18 to London, and what I did was just try to find my family and people that I felt could understand the experience that I was going through. I've met amazing people. I've also lost amazing people along the way, and unfortunately that's normal.

I'm not saying that being straight is easy, but when you're gay, you don't really have a familial network or support system. You have to find that. Also, I think there's a whole erasure of queer people who are in their 60s, 70s, 80s, and so there's this collective anxiety about aging and who's gonna love us and who's gonna take care of us and what if we don't have kids because we don't have any rulebooks for that or any guidebooks for that. It feels completely terrifying, and I know that I'm not alone in thinking that.

Do you worry at all about getting older? For sure. Now I feel a little bit more comfortable with it and I think, "Oh my God, I'm so happy that I'm not gonna have to worry." I don't want to have kids, and that's just a personal choice. It's nothing to do with being gay or not, but I used to worry that "Oh, I'm gay, and that means I can't have a longterm relationship or get married or have kids." That was just the thing that you were supposed to have, that everybody was supposed to have. Now, of course, we do live in a world where it's totally normal for gay guys to get married and have kids.

Now I kind of feel like, "Oh well, I feel like I can just be empowered enough to make the choice to not have those things. I don't want them," and still live a full, happy life and get old and be a mad gay guy living by the sea like Grace and Frankie. That's literally all I'm aiming toward, is living like Grace and Frankie.

You just mentioned how we're meant to assume that we won't have long relationships. I've been in a relationship for almost four years, but the way that straight people talk about the length of their relationship, as if it's like...you know how when you have a dog, and it's like, "Well, he's 8 in dog years, but he's 64 in human years." People seem shocked that we're able to carry out longterm monogamy. I know. On the one hand, I think one of the great things about being gay, I find, is it's not a given that you're gonna immediately enter a monogamous relationship with somebody that just has to last as long as possible, and it fails when it ends. It's like one rule, and it's not to cheat. I love that it feels like there are more possibilities. For myself as a gay guy, I feel like, "Oh, maybe I could have a different kind of relationship," which is great but...

The rulebook is different. Exactly. But at the same time, it does show the double standard that gay people are viewed as less likely to be able to commit. I think there are lots of reasons for that, and I don't want to jump to, like, "Oh, well, straight people just think that gay guys are deviant and promiscuous," you know? There's a seed of truth to that, still, that it is kind of a surprise to see a longterm relationship.

It's crazy how we have one relationship model. I think even five years ago, people weren't super aware of what polyamory meant or being in a throuple. And I was like, "Maybe I wanna be in a throuple?" And I was like, "Actually, that seems like the best relationship ever." I just wanna be the unicorn in the throuple, and I can live in the next house to the couple. Wait, this sounds so fun. How can I arrange this?

I'm sure you can arrange that. I know. In my mind, I'm working toward the Grace and Frankie throuple situation. I'm just gonna get high by the beach all day. Maybe see my husbands or whoever they are a couple times a week.

Styling by Nick Royal